Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles

by Edward A. Grainger

  He pulled his pipe from his vest pocket and since he'd filled it some time before, he set the tobacco alight and worked up a cloud of pleasing smoke. He strode back to the river. His eyes picked up an invisible trail that led to a tangle of submerged branches. He waded out and studied the clot of wood and grass, recently disturbed. Van Jones had come this way after all. He whistled to the pinto, who joined him in the knee-deep water.

  "Well boy, it looks like we are going for a swim." The horse neighed in reply.

  As they splashed across the river, the lawman's thoughts turned to the showdown ahead and so, to the soft comforts of Violet. His answer to her had been curt and it spoke only a portion of what he felt. He was not the kind of man who revealed his feelings to just anyone. Not that Violet was just anyone. They had talked marriage, but until he was one-hundred percent sure of why he risked his life for a justice system that hadn't been fair to his family, then he would just as soon do his job, alone and unhindered, and remain quiet.

  Once they gained the other side, his horse shook dry as Miles's gaze and concentration returned to the ground beneath them. Van Jones had joined up with three other riders. Miles knew he was getting close.

  ***

  The path to the hideout curved up a steep, stony mountain that seemed farther because of its snaking manner. Miles crept along, scanning and checking each ridge for a possible ambush. The path opened up to a sprawling plateau which presented a new challenge—no protection on the upward slope in addition to a thick line of scrub and boulders canvassing the top edge. Each side of the plateau was framed by a hundred-foot cliff. There was no going around. The clouds opened up and a steady downpour began to drench the ground.

  Miles dismounted and looped the reins over a low-hanging limb, and grabbed up his field glasses that rode dangling from the saddlehorn. The ridge came into focus through the hammering rain as he swept the terrain. Empty, but it was impossible to see through the dense bushes.

  He decided to leave the horse behind to lessen the chances of being spotted and then come back later for his pinto. He set out, squinting through the torrent. He was about halfway up the plateau when multiple shots sliced the rain. Miles cried out when the flesh of his left shoulder ripped away. He dropped down next to a small rock and lay motionless, pretending to be dead, as the patches of mud exploded around him.

  "Stop!"

  The firing continued. A bullet slammed into his right boot-heel.

  "I said stop! We done got 'im! Save yer lead."

  A couple more rounds fired, the voice yelled again, and then silence.

  Miles ground his teeth, cursing his stupidity for walking into an ambush.

  Blood streamed down his left arm. If he didn't bandage it soon he would bleed out in minutes. The shoulder hurt like a son of a bitch, but moving could prove fatal. He sat still and listened. Nothing. Were they watching him from above or had they admired their 'kill' and wandered on?

  Violet's face entered his mind's eye. A pleasing last thought if there ever was one. Maybe she had been right. He could die here and who would care? Regardless, if Cash even found his body, who would mourn his passing? Cash, Violet, Knox—but few others. Violet was right. There would be no Wild Bill myth rising for the black lawman.

  Boots stomped through the mud. They were approaching. With his good arm still stretched across his chest, Miles held the Colt he had been able to pull but unable to use.

  Miles opened his eyes. There were three, no, four of them—and the man in the lead was Van Jones. He should have guessed that vile dog would know he was coming for him. Miles raised his weapon with what strength he had left. Luckily for him, they had not fanned out, and two of the bushwhackers, in line behind Van Jones, had to step sideways to get a bead on him. That was more than enough opportunity. With a speed borne of long practice, Miles delivered bullets to Van Jones's stomach and the second man's throat. Miles rolled sideways, ignoring the pain, and popped the third man in the right eye, sending chunks of brain out the back of the man's head. The fourth killer managed to squeeze off a shot that threw hot lead into his left leg. Miles winced as the bullet settled and his face scraped hard against the rough terrain. He rolled again to his back, spraying slugs to the man's upper chest. The brawny owlhoot growled in anguish, dying before his crumpling knees pounded the ground. Van Jones, holding his stomach with his left hand, raised his revolver at the lawman, shaking.

  "Die, you bastard!"

  "Right behind you." Miles seethed aiming the last bullet dead center between his fugitive's eyes. Van Jones's head snapped back and his body fell sideways coming to rest on the legs of one of his gang.

  Miles studied the smoking lumps of flesh before him, making sure they didn't move. The whole shootout had lasted less than ten seconds. He dropped the Colt and yanked a handkerchief from his pocket, clamping it on his arm. Before he could tie it, he passed out.

  ***

  Violet didn't look at him but tended the wounds of her man prone on the bar. Knox hovered nearby, assisting with clean bandages and hot water.

  "Is he going to be okay?"

  Violet turned to Marshal Cash Laramie and nodded expressionless.

  "Good. Because he owes me for finding him half alive." Laramie poked his hat back on his head and folded his arms. "And I intend to collect this time."

  Miles managed a weak smile.

  Cash's conscience had only let him wait several hours before he had headed out after his friend. Chief Penn hadn't been upset when he realized Cash's insubordination had saved Gideon Miles's life. The judge had also understood and rescheduled the trial to allow Cash the opportunity to testify.

  "Oh, I almost forgot." Cash walked outside and returned a moment later with the youngster from the livery stable. "You have a fan who's been checking up on you."

  The young boy removed his hat, placing it over his chest. Violet had finished and Miles was now able to sit up on the bar's edge.

  "Once he heard you were wounded he came to fetch your horse and take care of it," Cash said.

  Miles looked down at the boy, whose dark skin had a shade of red from the day's activities.

  "Son, what's your name again?"

  "Keith," he stammered, without looking up.

  "Keith, I'm much obliged, but it's past sundown and your mother must be worried sick."

  "No, sir, Mr. Miles. I told her I was taking care of your horse. Everyone's heard about the shooting and she said it would be fitting."

  Miles grinned and tried to reach into his pocket, wincing from the pain.

  "Here," Cash said, reaching into own his pocket for a nickel.

  "No, sir, Mr. Miles, what I done for you is free. I'll take care of your horse till you fetch it. It will be the finest looking horse in the stable." He backed up toward the door. "No, sir, free."

  Miles saw a tear well up in Violet's eyes.

  Keith got to the door and stopped.

  "Mr. Miles."

  "Yes, Keith?"

  "Someday, I am going to be a marshal just like you." With that exclamation, he swiftly shut the door.

  Cash smiled, "And I bet he does. Knox, you have some Maryland Rye?"

  "I sure do," the bartender said as he ambled behind the counter and grabbed a bottle from the top shelf.

  Miles carefully slid to the side so Violet could place his arm in a sling. She looked at him, stood on her toes, and planted a kiss on his cheek.

  "I thought you were cross with me."

  "I was."

  "And?"

  She turned to the door where the boy had just departed, then looked back at Miles.

  "I understand a little more why you do it."

  "I'm glad."

  "Still doesn't mean I like it."

  His eyes settled into hers a flash before she leaned in, their lips meeting in a deep kiss.

  THE BONE ORCHARD MYSTERY

  Gravedigger Toombs held back until the McAllister family was out of sight before he sat on the finely crafted hardwood casket. Lightn
ing streaked across the heavens, illuminating the cemetery as he withdrew a flask from his torn vest pocket, hands trembling, and unscrewed the top. Toombs ran his tongue over his lips and smacked them as he lifted the container to mouth, tasting the whiskey's first drop.

  The old codger knew he had little time to get Lazarus McAllister underground before the sky unleashed its fury. A series of flashing bursts snapped in succession seconding his thoughts. He wiped the straggly gray beard and then studiously reattached the flask top.

  He got to work threading the rope through a pulley rigged to a frame straddling the six-foot deep gash in the earth. Toombs attached the makeshift harness to both sides of the casket. Letting the pulleys handle the leverage, he slid the box sideways on the ground, swung it over the pit and lowered Mr. McAllister into his eternal resting place.

  Plenty of gossip made the town rounds about this long-lost McAllister brother who had died while visiting the family plot. He had arrived from England just days earlier; no one other than the family had seen the man. Naturally, folks were curious what is was all about. Toombs continued to lower the casket until it hit the bottom with a soft thud. He cursed as sprinkles began falling like tiny fingers drumming on his back. He bent over to pick up the shovel when he stopped and stroked his long beard.

  No one saw the body? A rich relative from overseas.

  His Gatling-gunner eyes shot around the bone orchard while he snagged a crowbar from his bag of tools. Toombs slithered into the muddy grave, finding just enough room on the right side to plant a foot. He wedged the tool under the coffin lid, slipping his fingers in between, swearing as he skinned them. The heavens ripped apart as if to announce his shady dealings just as the last latch broke and he raised the lid up. He lurched back bumping his head on the earthen wall, and dropped the metal bar. The corpse's hands lay respectfully crossed over the chest clutching a pocket watch. Toombs peered closer as he cautiously reached for the timepiece. He pulled at it, the chain catching on McAllister's pinky, raising the dead man's arm with the chain.

  "Now, com'on. You've got all eternity, so you won't be needing it," Toombs mumbled in frustration.

  He snatched the cold dead hand, freed the chain and stashed the watch away. He rummaged through pockets for other mementos, surprised to find a wallet. His lips and fingers flitted as he fumbled with the folds. Inside was nothing more than a business card. Cussing again, he put the wallet back.

  Toombs was about to give up when a bolt of lightning revealed a gold cufflink.

  He removed it and its match. He was soaked through and the payoff wasn't worth the effort. For a British dandy, this McAllister wore a rather drab American watch. Oh well, he thought, the cufflinks ought to bring in a couple of bucks.

  He glanced down and felt a twinge of pity for the poor chap he just robbed—seemed too young to die. The longer Toombs gazed, the more the dead man looked familiar.

  His blood quickened. He sensed a presence. His eyes darted up to the rim of the hole. Boots. His eyes went higher, rain pounding down hard on him. The ghost of the dead man stared back. He dropped the cuff links onto the body and clasped at his chest. The eyes of the ghost bore into him as Toombs fell forward onto the corpse.

  ***

  The mock bird chirp alerted Marshal Cash Laramie that his partner, Gideon Miles, was approaching from the thicket at the far end of the cemetery. Cash crouched behind the headstone of the freshly buried Scoot Simmons, 1860-1882: RIP. "Loved by everyone 'cept the dirty dog murderer who shot him down." He admired his partner's stealth knowing Miles was now just a hair's breadth away.

  "Anything?" Cash whispered rubbing his square jaw.

  "It's as quiet as a soiled dove in a church pew," Miles replied. The black lawman knelt beside him and flipped the collar of his Mackinaw jacket up to brace against the strong wind.

  "Same here."

  "Remind me again, what are we doing?"

  Cash tipped the brim of his Stetson up, took the unlit cigar from his mouth, and pointed to a tall Gothic marker in the center of the graveyard. "Two deaths happened there on the McAllister family plot."

  "As in Solomon McAllister, local railroad baron here in Twin Falls?" Miles asked.

  "Yep. Biggest toad in the puddle 'round here." Cash leaned back against the headstone, chewing the end of his cigar. "Solomon's long-lost brother, Lazarus, dropped dead about a week ago when visiting the family plot. And two days later, the gravedigger keeled over while burying him. Our client, the two boys' old man, seems to be on his last leg and assumes everyone is circling like buzzards for the inheritance. He was suspicious before the deaths and now, with two children dead, even more so. And with next to nothing for leads, I figured it wouldn't hurt to camp out a bit and see—"

  "And see," Miles continued, "if a woman with a good build...mousy face...smeared makeup...cock-eyed hat and rumpled expensive clothes shows up?"

  "Huh?" Cash peered over his shoulder and then spun around. "Hannah McAllister Faust."

  "Ah, C. Auguste Dupin, pray tell."

  "She's the old man's only daughter," Cash explained. "Her husband died during the war and she has since been running a couple of McAllister family-owned businesses...running 'em right into the ground. Most notably the local newspaper."

  In halting steps, Hannah approached the headstone, paused, and then flung herself on the grave, crying out loudly.

  "Yesterday, before you rode in, I interviewed the family and met her. She seemed genuinely upset over Lazarus's death."

  The woman ran her hand over the engraved named. A scything wind raced across the cemetery, whipping up dead leaves that circled Hannah's flowing white dress.

  Hannah spoke inaudibly as she reached into her handbag and withdrew a small Derringer.

  Cash and Miles scrambled forward but the smell of sulfurous smoke and the thump of her collapsed body signaled they were too late.

  ***

  Solomon McAllister sat in an office which, save for a massive wooden desk more resembled a decorative New Orleans brothel than a tycoon's place of business. Long lace curtains spilled down to a plush carpet decorated with nymphs dancing through a forest of flowers. Garish art featuring naked women adorned the walls and a heavy smell of stale cigar smoke lingered. Cash settled in the chair across from him.

  "I am relieved she did not die alone," Solomon McAllister declared matter-of-factly. He stared at the paper his late sister had owned. The headline shrieked, BONE ORCHARD MURDERS CONTINUE.

  "Murders?" Cash scoffed.

  Solomon slid the paper to the side of his desk and took a sip of tea before continuing. "No, of course it's not murder but Hannah would have approved of the sensationalism to keep the paper afloat and folks are whispering about the peculiarity of three people dying on the same plot of land." He daintily placed the teacup back on the saucer. "Our local sawbones reports Lazarus and the gravedigger died of heart attacks. And you are eyewitness testimony to Hannah's suicide. Still the word 'murder' moves print."

  "Do you know what reason your sister would have to take her own life?" Cash asked.

  "She was heartbroken over the loss of Lazarus."

  "Excuse me for saying so, sir, but killing oneself over the death of a brother one hardly knew is, well, unusual to say the least. Wouldn't you agree?" Cash was losing his patience with Solomon's flippant attitude over his sister's passing.

  "Not in Hannah's case. She was very dramatic. Given to hysteric fits like most women but even more so in her case."

  "How so?"

  "When our father gave her the paper and the silver mine to run, it was against my better judgment. She doesn't—didn't—have a head for business. Very addle-minded..."

  Solomon McAllister let his voice trail off as if the effort to continue was too great.

  "Huh...I didn't get that impression when I met her."

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  A skeletal man with swollen eyes stepped in. "Your signature is needed, sir."

  "Where?"


  "The usual, sir."

  "Oh, of course." Solomon hastily made his scratched mark.

  "Both pages, sir."

  Solomon squinted at the document. "My sister's death has me a little flustered." He finished signing, handed them back to the assistant who left and then turned to Cash, "Where were we?"

  "I was saying she didn't seem like that timid a woman."

  "Looks can be deceiving."

  "Yes, they can," Cash said spotting a photograph on a bookshelf. He walked around the desk leaning in for a closer look. "How is your father handling your sister's death?"

  "I've decided not tell him in his present condition. As you know, a seizure has left him frail. Bedridden. I don't see the need to add to his hardship."

  "Do you mind?" Cash asked studying the daguerreotype.

  "Not at all. It is one of just two that exist of the whole family. Mother took the other when she left for Europe, with Lazarus, over thirty years ago."

  Cash removed the dusty photo from the shelf.

  "Have you sent word to your mother about Lazarus's and Hannah's deaths?"

  "Mother passed away six months ago from consumption." Solomon lowered his head and traced a scratch on the desk with his finger. "She couldn't eat and had shrunk to a skeleton of her former self, coughing up blood...it was a most horrifying death."

  "I'm sorry to hear that." Cash replaced the framed daguerreotype.

  "Marshal Laramie, I am a little curious, as I mentioned the other day, why the marshal services has intervened in my family's unfortunate matter."

  There was another knock. Swollen-eyes was back.

  "Sir, it's three o'clock."

  Solomon McAllister looked perplexed.

  "Your weekly meeting with the committee."

  "Oh, yes. Marshal Laramie will you excuse me? Please help yourself to a drink."

  "Much obliged." Cash lifted the full pot of freshly brewed Arbuckle's coffee and poured a cup.

  ***

  "Yes, the paper is struggling through some difficult times but with the latest tidings, we are at present on an upswing," squeaked Clyde Bishop, editor of the Twin Falls paper, and now its temporary defacto head. The weasely man peered over the top rim of his round spectacles and scrunched his nose, "Heck, Marshal we have papers from as far away as San Francisco paying for exclusive information." He noticed Gideon Miles's fascination with the printing press. "Care to see how the newsprint is made?"