Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles

by Edward A. Grainger

  "If you don't mind," Miles said.

  "I'd be glad to. First you set the letters." The man's fingers moved briskly as he put the last few blocks in place. He grabbed a bottle from the work table and continued his discourse, "Liberally ink the surface. Then lay your paper stock onto the press being sure you don't smudge it." Bishop slid a large blank sheet into place. "Put your frame over the paper so it holds it in place, slide the whole thing under the press, and then pull this lever toward you to clamp the press down, giving you a fine imprint." Bishop lifted the press and handed Miles the freshly printed page.

  "Very nice." Miles ran a finger gently over the margin, noticing a gap in the center of the lowercase "Z."

  Bishop caught the look and chagrined. "Yes, an imperfect impression, we intend to buy new pieces as soon as we turn a profit."

  "And Mrs. Faust's death and the unexpected publicity will help you to realize that."

  "Yes, very exciting—" Bishop stopped cold in his ramblings and snatched the paper back, eyeing the lawman with contempt. "Is there anything else you need, Marshal?"

  "I suppose that'll do."

  ***

  "He ain't the same if you know what I mean?" The Magnolia saloon girl winked at Cash, the single plume feather from her colorful headdress danced as she bobbed her head.

  "I'm not sure I do." Cash looked to Miles whose raised eyebrows asked the same question.

  "Do you reckon there's a reward?"

  "Maybe we can compensate you for your troubles. If we get information we can use," Miles said.

  Cash raised his empty glass to the bartender who nodded and reached for a bottle of whiskey.

  "What do you mean Solomon McAllister isn't the same?" Cash questioned.

  "Well, it ain't proper for a lady to kiss and tell, but let's just say when I stopped by for our usual rendezvous this week, he wasn't packing the piece I'm familiar with."

  The bartender slammed the bottle in the middle of the table. "Now Miss Jo, we have other customers that need tending too."

  "Horace, these Marshals are paying for the time."

  The bartender's eyes settled on Gideon Miles. "I'm afraid the only reason you were allowed in the Magnolia is because you're wearing that star. But we don't serve your kind here, boy. I don't care who you are. Now, the men at the table over there don't take kindly to you talking to their women."

  The marshals had already spotted the three Faro playing cowpokes trying to stare them down.

  "What do you mean by 'your kind'?" Miles asked.

  "He must be referring to those city slicker clothes you're wearing." Cash smirked to Miles, and then turned to the bartender with a look of gravity, "I swear, I've told Miles that no man who puts in an honest day's work can be so clean."

  "I...I was referring to—"

  "What's that, barkeep?" Cash said.

  "We don't tolerate Negros in our place," the biggest of the cowboys announced like a carnival barker. He stood firmly planting his feet apart. The other two followed suit.

  Cash turned to Jo. "Probably best we talk later. You head on out of here."

  She nodded and took flight up the stairs and peeked back around the corner to watch.

  The bartender scurried behind the counter for cover as the three men fanned out in front of the card table. Miles stood kicking the chair back with force. He pulled his jacket back revealing his gun.

  The leader of the trio looked at Cash, "Marshal, we got no beef with you. Your boy here can wait outside."

  "Fellas, I sure hope you come to your senses." From under the cover of the table, Cash pulled his Peacemaker. "Drawing irons on a federal marshal is prison worthy enough but to pull a gun on Mr. Miles here, one of the few men who stood toe-to-toe with Johnny Ringo and lived to tell about it, well, that's just plain suicide."

  The owlhoot to the far left went for his pistol but before a finger even touched the cold steel, he screamed out as a bullet burned into his left shoulder, flinging him back against some chairs, toppling them over.

  A white line streamed from the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel of Gideon Miles's Colt. "Draw!" he thundered to the other two cowboys crouched down with hands on the butts of their guns. "I like this game your playing."

  They looked at each other and their fallen partner who was staining the floorboards crimson. They straightened up and raised their hands over their heads.

  "I don't think they wanna play anymore." Cash said, first looking at Miles and then turning to the startled faces. "His speed is breathless, isn't it? Now, gentlemen, lay your guns on the floor, take your friend to the doctor and then turn yourselves in to the sheriff."

  Each man dropped their irons and then grabbed a leg, dragging their whining friend through the swinging doors.

  "Oh, and boys," Miles said, the men stopped without looking back, "make sure you turn yourselves in. I'd sure hate to come after you."

  A streak of blood trailed after them as they left.

  Miles holstered his Peacemaker and turned to Cash, "I think I'll finish interviewing Miss Jo. I may be a little while."

  A smile broke free of Jo's mouth, as she rose from her corner, waiting for Miles to join her. Cash grinned laying his Colt on the table and reaching for the bottle of liquor. "No problem, there's enough firewater here to pass the time."

  ***

  Miles's shovel bit down into a piece of earth and he tossed it aside.

  Cash stopped to push the brim of his hat up and wipe the sweat away. "Maybe, I'm wrong, but women like Jo know their men. And after checking with Solomon's personal physician, I believe we will be able to determine what monkey business is going on around here."

  "So now we are grave robbers?"

  "If we wait for permission from a judge, any evidence here will be lost." Cash said tapping the ground.

  Miles nodded.

  "And so," Cash's shovel hit the casket with a thud, "our answer should be inside."

  They cleared off the remaining dirt and positioned themselves to the sides. Miles opened the coffin, the stench made them reel back and cover their faces with handkerchiefs.

  Cash studied the man's build. "Would you say he's bigger or smaller than the Solomon McAllister we met?"

  Miles fished a lucifer out of his shirt pocket and scratched it to life, squinting at the cadaver. "Definitely bigger. Otherwise, a dead ringer."

  "Damn lucky it's been cold enough to keep the body from decaying any further."

  "Move that light over here," Cash said finding the wallet in the man's jacket. "Good."

  Miles peered over Cash's shoulder, "A business card. Lazarus McAllister Esq., London, England. That's interesting."

  "What is?"

  "Look at the gap in the "Z" of his name. Bishop at the newspaper office showed me the printing press earlier today and the chances of Lazarus McAllister making up business cards upon arriving in town or a duplicate press with the same deficiency in England are slim to none."

  "Well, one more thing to check for." Cash said, pulling a pair of leather gloves from his hip pocket."

  "The teeth?"

  "Yep. His doctor said he had extensive surgery done in the last few months to include some fancy gold fillings."

  Cash, with some difficulty, unlocked the jaws, which were frozen shut.

  "Eureka." Miles said as the gold tooth twinkled in the light. "The man laying here is not the long lost Lazarus but—"

  "Solomon McAllister," another voice came from above. The marshals looked up at a silhouette walking into focus, pistol pointed at them.

  "Lazarus McAllister, I presume," Cash said.

  "Actually, Lazarus Davenport—mother's maiden name—but either way, at your service."

  The imposter dropped the fake western drawl in favor of his cockney accent. "Hannah thought making up cards for my appearance as a man of wealth would help smooth things with my father. He could have hardly cared that his son had returned let alone a man of privilege. Father's only concern was how much money I planned to sipho
n off him."

  "Which was your intent all along?" Cash said.

  There was venom in his voice. "Throw your guns up here."

  Cash and Miles unbuckled their Peacemakers and tossed them clear of the grave. Cash reached for his pocket. Lazarus pulled the gun's hammer back.

  "Smoke," Cash said.

  "Slowly marshal."

  Cash took the cigar and lit it.

  "Why kill the gravedigger?" Miles asked.

  "I didn't. Stroke of luck actually. He saw me and had a heart attack. No loss really, he was just a scamp who pilfered the bodies."

  "And Solomon?" Cash said.

  "I guess it doesn't matter if I tell you since you will be hearing distant drums soon enough." Lazarus relished his role as executioner, dropping his gun slightly and placing his left hand on his hip. "I put enough arsenic in his coffee to drop an elephant."

  "And your sister went along with it," Miles said.

  "She didn't think I was going to kill him She just wanted Solomon off her back."

  "So do you really think you're going to continue fooling people?" Cash said.

  Lazarus let out a forced chuckle. "Of course not and I won't need to. Most of the money has already been sent to my bank in England. In three days I will be on a ship and once home I'll sell the rest of the property from there."

  "You forgot one thing. Your father is still alive."

  "Yes, but his seizure has left him incapacitated, and with Solomon running the businesses, it was his signature—now mine—that controls the assets. I will enjoy destroying my father. He made life a living hell for mother and me. And all the more enjoyable to know he will die with his kingdom in tatters and his golden children dead. His life's work a complete failure."

  "Someone will come after you," Miles said.

  "Hardly, there's a big pond between us, no money to pursue and my country would frown on one of its own being extradited on such flimsy evidence. So really gentleman, you two are the only obstacles left. But one question, who called you in to investigate?"

  Cash puffed his cheroot watching the smoke drift idly up the dirt walls. Miles tapped the coffin with the shovel.

  "It doesn't really matter and I can probably guess—"

  Cash flipped the cigar up high and out of the grave. Lazarus's eyes flicked, following the orange flame as it seared the darkness. With the flick of his wrist, a knife slid down the inside of Miles's sleeve and appeared in his hand. A split second later, it was sticking in the Prodigal Son's eye. Blood oozed forth, Lazarus fell back, triggering a shot into the nighttime sky.

  Cash and Miles scaled the pit's walls. But there was no need to hurry. Lazarus died instantaneously, the red blood soaking his skin.

  "I guess letting him know earlier we had discovered something and would be digging up the body forced his hand." Cash said.

  "True enough, but next time let's keep somebody to watch. We almost made the big jump ourselves."

  "Agreed."

  ***

  "I can't thank you enough for taking this investigation on the side," the old man said struggling to sit up in his bed. "How did you figure out Lazarus had killed Solomon and assumed his place."

  "Little things really," Cash said. "For one, Solomon didn't seem to know his way around his own office drinking tea while a pot of Arbuckle's sat untouched. There was also the photograph of your sons together as children bearing a remarkable resemblance."

  "Amazing what time will do. I had forgotten about how much they looked alike. Wouldn't have mattered. My eyes aren't what they used to be."

  Cash continued, "When I was interviewing Solomon he spoke of his mother's death as if he had first hand knowledge which, of course, he did.

  "Based on our information, Hannah met her long-lost brother Lazarus at the stage coach in Cheyenne. The rest is conjecture. Seeing her brother's uncanny resemblance and knowing Solomon was ready to take over because of her mountain of debt, she hatched the plan to retain power by helping Lazarus become Solomon. She didn't see Lazarus's hatred for the family and certainly never expected he would kill to claim his inheritance. Hannah's guilt led to her suicide. An autopsy will confirm Solomon's murder."

  A young woman entered the room with a dinner tray. McAllister twisted and wriggled to sit up straighter. She used a steak knife to slice away at the chunk of rare meat in front of him as bloody juices filled the plate.

  "Thank you gentleman. Your payment is on the table there," he said gnawing on his food.

  Cash took the envelope and both marshals stopped before the doorway looking back at the woman who sat on the bed next to McAllister, revealing a pregnant belly underneath her clothes.

  Without looking up, the old man offered a parting word, "It's never too late for new beginnings, is it gentlemen?"

  MELANIE

  Lenora Wilkes looped her hand around Marshal Cash Laramie's arm as they exited the Spaulding restaurant and into Cheyenne's bustling Friday night. It was a rare night off for the painted lady and Cash thought she sparkled as he led her past the colorful store displays. They stepped around a lanky city worker lighting the gas lamps along the main thoroughfare when Lenora tightened her grip.

  "Cash! Look—" Her words died in her throat as she pointed across the street.

  But he was already on the move, sprinting toward a young girl who had absent-mindedly stepped right in front of the oncoming evening stage. Cash charged before the team of horses, whisked the girl up in his arms, and tumbled over, ramming his left side into the earth. The girl remained protected in his arms as he landed with a thud at the foot of the general store steps.

  "Whoa!" The driver snapped the reins back, skidding the stage to a halt.

  The dark-haired girl popped from Cash's hold. "Oh no, my flowers." She raced to the center of the street where a bouquet of yellow and purple daisies was mashed into the ground. A crowd of townsfolk milled about murmuring.

  Lenora hurried to Cash's side. "Are you hurt?"

  "Fine," Cash grumbled as he stretched his six-foot frame up and brushed the dust from his corduroy trousers with the back of his rumpled black Stetson. His eyes narrowed as the stagecoach driver ran to them. "You almost killed her."

  The short, thickset man wiped sweat from his brow looking at Cash's badge. "Sorry, marshal. I didn't see her until the very last second." Unlike the girl, the man's voice betrayed his near miss at a killing.

  He walked over to the girl who cradled the sad-looking, crushed daisies in her hands. Gently, he touched her shoulder. "Miss, I'm very sorry."

  The girl dropped the flowers on the dirt staring wistfully after. "Uncle Clem is going to be mad."

  Confusion passed over the driver's face, followed quickly by a resolution. "Why, miss, how much for the whole lot?" He reached into his pocket for some change.

  The girl wiped a solitary tear from her ashen cheek. "Two bits."

  Cash cleared his throat. The driver scrunched up his face and brought out double the amount. "Here you go, miss."

  He patted the girl on the head and tilted his hat at Lenora and Cash. "Ma'am. Sorry, marshal." With a step that seemed just a bit too quick to Cash, the driver scrambled onto the coach. He put reins to the horses and the crowd dispersed, already losing interest.

  Gaping at the ruts in the street and how the tracks careened around where she had stood not a minute before, the weight of what just happened leveled on the girl. Her shoulders sagged as she lowered her head. "That would have been bad," she said in a small whisper. "My uncle sure would have—"

  She looked into the lawman's blue eyes. "Thank you."

  Cash smiled.

  "My pleasure, little lady," he said, tipping his hat. "What's your name?"

  "Melanie."

  Lenora knelt, wiping the matted hair from the child's eyes. "Where do you live, Melanie?"

  She pointed east out of town. "That way." Cash bent down beside Melanie and caught Lenora looking at the back of the girl's neck. Frowning, he craned his head to get a better view. In th
e glow of the gas lamps, black-and-blue bruises were clearly outlined with another series of marks visible above the front collar of her sullied dress.

  Cash's jaw flinched, a fire blazed within him. He forced a smile on his face. "Well lucky for us, we're headed that way. How old are you, anyway?"

  "I'm seven." The girl reached for the Arapaho arrowhead around Cash's neck and turned it over in her hand. "You Indian or something?"

  Cash grinned. "No, ma'am." He picked up the girl holding her in the fold of his shoulder.

  "Then why do you wear it?"

  "It was given to me by my stepmother."

  "I wish I had an arrowhead."

  Cash set her in the middle of the buggy he had readied for an evening ride with his girlfriend. Lenora gathered her dress and climbed in beside the girl. Melanie looked the woman up and down. "You sure are pretty."

  Lenora brushed the side of the child's face, tucking a lock of hair behind the girl's ear, covering in the process a particularly long bruise. "And you are, too."

  Melanie sized up Lenora's bountiful blonde tresses, bright red dress with a plunging neckline, and cameo pendant on a black satin choker that Cash had bought for her birthday. "Not like you."

  The marshal laughed as he released the break and guided the horse and buggy out of town.

  ***

  Melanie lived along Buzzard Creek, an area known for its shotgun houses and hardscrabble inhabitants. Melanie's home was better than most but still looked broken down with peeling shingles and a second thing—an outhouse stationed within yards of the house reeking of its foul odor. Cash parked the buggy downwind.

  Outside the front door, a tall burly man chopping wood stopped mid swing. A beanpole of a woman walked out and stood next to him. Her gray bagged eyes, that carried a faint resemblance to Melanie, slitted at the prostitute but seemed to warm to Cash's wide grin. When her gaze locked on the star pinned to his chest, her eyes turned cold again.