Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series)

by Edward A. Grainger

  But maybe he was just imagining Cash Laramie was after him. Though he couldn't shake the sensation that he had a constant shadow mirroring his every move since he was released from Territorial.

  The batwing doors flew open, squeaking loudly on a rusty hinge, and the ex-con jumped.

  "Easy now, Doig, easy," Teeth said, slapping a reassuring hand on Doig's shoulder. "Just a cowpuncher."

  Doig followed the newcomer who crossed the wooden floor where he joined the Long Branch Saloon's curvaceous, red-headed owner. Dammit, he was dead beat and could use some sleep. One more round. He dealt lazily from the bottom of the deck and knew right away he'd fucked up.

  Stranger's eyes widened. "You God-damned cheat!" He kicked his chair back, standing.

  Sparks tipped sideways out of his seat and scrambled across the floorboards looking for cover.

  Teeth stood straddle-legged, facing Stranger. Both men bolted for their pistols. The Stranger's Remington spoke first, pushing lead into Doig's shoulder and shoving him back against the wall, his outstretched hand punching a gas lamp into darkness. Stranger's iron flashed sideways to Teeth but the wide grinning player dropped low and to the right, pumping out two slugs from his Colt that burrowed into Stranger's upper chest. The man clutched his torso with his left hand and stumbled backward onto another card table, expelling his last breath as he scattered cards, glasses, and money.

  A towering barkeep pulled a Winchester from behind the counter and trained it on the two-bit players. Doig looked in shock at the slumped figure of the stranger, and then winced. "I've been shot."

  The barkeep yelled at Teeth to lower his weapon and commanded a bystander to step back out of the line of fire. In an instant, Teeth darted for the saloon's entrance and out onto Front Street. The barkeep trained a bead on him but with so many innocent onlookers in the line of fire, the man didn't dare fire and cursed as the fleeing figure escaped.

  * * *

  The celebrated town marshal showed up with his deputy limping in behind him. They stoically rounded up the two remaining gamblers and hauled them away.

  Doig sat in a hard wooden chair with his left wrist handcuffed to the desk and his right hand clutching a bottle of whiskey from which he occasionally downed a swig while the sawbones dug lead out of his shoulder. He heard the marshal in the other room asking several witnesses about the incident, and for the first time, he felt the law was on his side as the saloon patrons verified he had been drawn on. In the midst of all the questions, a ranch hand had tipped off the marshal that the stranger was actually a wanted hard case named Boze Allen. Doig felt a bit foolish that he had suspected the man was Cash Laramie, and he wished he had his friend, Teeth, to tell but the guy who saved his life was nowhere to be found according to the talk. Maybe Teeth ran because he was a wanted man, and Doig knew that feeling all too well.

  Doc finished bandaging Doig's shoulder and called the marshal in.

  "Okay, Doig, you're free to go but I don't want to see your face in Dodge again. You hear?" The marshal unlocked the cuffs and gave Doig his few possessions, but not the winnings from the poker game.

  Doig wandered down the street and rounded up his horse that he had left tied outside the Long Branch.

  * * *

  Doig sat in front of the crackling fire he had built not too far from a narrow stream, a perfect spot to camp for the night. He adjusted his arm in the sling as he stirred the logs with his good one. The sharp snap of a twig made him spin about drawing his iron. A familiar face emerged from the shadows.

  "Dammit, Teeth. I almost shot you." He reholstered his weapon. "Why'd you run?"

  "Didn't want to run into Matt. 'Fraid I'd have a lot of explaining to do. It was fool enough just entering Dodge."

  "I guess I never did know you're wanted."

  Teeth stepped closer to the campfire light. He looked different, not hunched over. And not just the height but he now wore a Mackinaw jacket and a black Stetson. He had a Colt strapped to his side with his hand readied over the butt. An unlit cheroot hung from the corner of his mouth. No big smile, just cold steel blue eyes.

  "Wait a damn minute. You called the Dodge marshal, Matt!"

  "U.S. Marshals are usually on a first name basis." Teeth slid the rawhide thong off the hammer of his gun.

  Doig lunged for his six-shooter but the first shot from Teeth's iron ripped into his injured shoulder. Second and third slugs tunneled into both kneecaps rendering them to pulp. Doig dropped his pistol screaming out and flopping on the ground.

  "I wasn't expecting to take care of Boze Allen in the same week. Lucky for me, huh?" Teeth pinned another bullet to Doig's left shoulder. The ex-con screams turned to low, stammering moans of anguish.

  "Finish me you fucking bastard," Doig yelled.

  A broad smirk stretched across Marshal Cash Laramie's face and in that moment the grinning card player was visible again. "Is that any way to talk to your good friend, Teeth?" A lazy white stream drifted away from the barrel of Cash's Colt. The Outlaw Marshal strolled around Doig whose blood flowed toward the fire like a tributary clawing for a river.

  "Let me tell you about the young man you murdered, Doig. His name was Keith. He was a good kid who could tell the funniest damn jokes. His mother used to invite my partner, Miles, and me over for dinner and Keith would have us rolling. His daddy was a Buffalo Soldier who died during the war and, well, his mother just doted on him. Now she's heartbroken. She's a good Christian woman who wouldn't understand this." Cash squeezed off a round to the wounded man's pelvis. Doig lurched up in a guttural screech, then collapsed in a fetal position, jerking like a fish caught on a hook.

  "But maybe I can tell her news is you died and that will bring some sort of comfort."

  Cash lit his cigar and crouched before the writhing figure. "But that's not good enough for me, Lyncher. No, I think I'll watch you bleed and shit yourself. Yes, that will make me happy." He pulled a Bowie knife from his belt. "Then I'm going to scalp you since that's what you expect from a half-breed. Am I right?"

  The only response Cash got was a damning stare of tear-rimmed red eyes.

  THE LAWYER

  A trail of blood flowed gently downstream, pulled by the lazy current of the Louisiana bayou. Slowly it dissolved into the muddy water, telling every creature with olfactory organs that a human was helpless and bleeding somewhere upstream; they could taste the fear. A raccoon dipped its meal of shellfish into the bayou, then sniffed at the smell of raw human blood. It licked at the clam. Washed it again. Sniffed. Dropped the morsel and retreated into the woods. A water moccasin cut across the dissolving blood, wigging its way toward the far bank. A snout pushed upstream, breathing in the bloody scent, followed by a sinuous body and long serpentine tail. Not much blood can be shed in a Louisiana bayou without a gator coming to investigate.

  A thick-muscled body lay on the bayou embankment, bound hand and foot, the source of the blood that drew the alligator. The reptile slowed, wary of the upright human standing over the blood source.

  The man they called The Lawyer knelt by the bleeding giant. While his stature didn't measure up to that of the unconscious blacksmith, the Lawyer had the fire of revenge on his side. He worked his fingers into the matted mass of the blacksmith's brown, shoulder-length hair. He jerked the unconscious man's head back, exposing the throat with its prominent larynx. The gator fastened its eyes on the prize and wiggled a little closer.

  The Lawyer rolled the big man over. His head lolled, blood still making a pathway down his face from a horribly broken nose. The Lawyer slapped him. It wouldn't do for the blacksmith to die. That would be too easy for him. Another slap. And another.

  The eyes fluttered. The Lawyer leaned down to shout in the blacksmith's ear. "Wake. Up. You turtle shit. Wake. Up!"

  The blacksmith gurgled. He opened one eye, just a sliver. He saw the Lawyer. He cringed. "No. No. Not again. No. Don't. Mister, don't kill me." He pleaded. He groveled. "Not ready to die." The gator hung in the water just out of the Law
yer's reach. It watched every movement of the two pieces of meat on the shore. It waited.

  The Lawyer leaned down close to the blacksmith's ear. "I'm not going to kill you, asshole." He jerked the blacksmith's head around so he faced the gator. "That is."

  "Oh, God!" The big man struggled against his bonds. "Oh, God. Mister. Don't. I never killed none of your family. Not one. You can't do this."

  "You were there. You watched. You liked watching. As far as I'm concerned, that's the same as cutting or stabbing or shooting."

  The gator edged closer, its eyes on the meat standing up and its nose full of fresh blood from the meat lying down. The lawyer grabbed hold of the blacksmith's belt and heaved him closer to the edge. The gator hovered. One more heave and the blacksmith's head touched the water. The gator lunged, jaws lined with three-inch teeth clamped over the blacksmith's shoulder. The gator heaved backward, pulling the screaming blacksmith further into the water. It changed its position, biting deeper into the man's arm. Then it started its death roll. In seconds, the blacksmith's arm was a bloody stump. The gator had ripped it from his body and pulled it from the ropes around the wrists. Blood spurted from torn arteries. The blacksmith's screams said he was no longer human, just prey. The gator struck again, fastening its jaws over the blacksmith's face and neck. The roll started again. This time the gator pulled the meat off the embankment and into the water. Mud bubbled to the top as the gator continued its roll of death down, down, down to the bottom of the bayou.

  The Lawyer stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the roiling water. Neither blacksmith nor gator came up. Only blood, and mud. The surface of the bayou eventually quieted. The moccasin wiggled back across the water. One more burble of blood rose to the surface. The Lawyer adjusted his wide-brimmed Stetson down over his eyes, then strode to his horse. He coiled the lariat he'd used to drag the blacksmith to the gator's dining table, mounted the blood bay mare, and fastened the lariat to the saddle horn. He patted the Morgan mare on the neck. "That's it, Redemption, Baker was the last of them." He neck-reined the bay around, and took the levee road to the riverboat landing.

  * * *

  The Hale and Hawkins stage made its usual entrance in a cloud of dust. And as usual, Scarecrow Jim sawed at the reins like the veteran driver he was. But instead of pulling the Concord to a stop in front of the H&H Stage Station, he drove the big coach right on by to Pritchard's Boarding House, a two-story yellow-and-white building at the far end of Main Street.

  Two well-dressed men climbed out of the coach. "Driver," shouted the first, a rotund man in his fifties with a leonine shock of white hair. "Driver. I'd be obliged if you'd toss my bags down. Here's a dollar for your trouble." He held a rumpled greenback.

  "Shit, Senator Woodruff. I'd toss yer damn trunks down fer nothin', far as that goes." Scarecrow Jim plucked the bill from the fat man's hand anyway.

  "And how is it that you know my name?"

  "Folks ain't always who they say they is," the driver said. He pulled a newspaper out from under his offside leg and handed it down to Woodruff. The Cheyenne Gazette's headline touted, "Senator Woodruff's Plan for Indian Replacement." Beneath the headline, surrounded by type, was an etching of Senator Woodruff himself, the man who now held the newspaper.

  The second man out of the coach put on a top hat as he exited, and he sported a fine hickory cane. He stabbed a finger at the caricature. "No mistake, sir. That's definitely you." Half a smile played on the thin lips of his thin face. "Shouldn't we get inside?" He, too, held up a dollar bill to Scarecrow Jim. "For my baggage, driver."

  The driver plucked the bill from the man's hand and started undoing the ropes that held the baggage in place.

  "Inside, yes. Well ..." Senator Woodruff glanced up and down Main, which was quiet on that Wednesday night. "I suppose you're right, Mr. Smith."

  "Your bags, Senator Woodruff." Scarecrow Jim handed the two heavy leather bags down. Woodruff accepted them one at a time and wrestled them to the boardwalk.

  Smith untied his Morgan mare from the rear of the coach, then came back in time to accept his own small bag. The other passengers stayed inside.

  Scarecrow Jim cracked his whip above the ears of the lead team and sawed the horse reins, turning the coach around in a broad circle that barely fit the confines of Main Street. A hundred yards down the street, he whipped the teams around again to face the way they'd originally entered town. He whoaed them in front of the H&H station so the other passengers could get out.

  Senator Woodruff, obviously not used to carrying his own bags, struggled down the boardwalk toward the front door of the boarding house. Smith led the bay Morgan to the hitching rail, where he looped the reins. The Morgan immediately went hip-shot as if he'd spent the best years of his life hitched up.

  The door opened before Smith and Woodruff reached it. "Good day, senator. I am Anne Pritchard." The woman stood almost as tall as the senator, but had less than half his girth. Her face said she was in her forties, but her hands said she'd lived a hard life. She glanced at Smith, who stood behind Senator Woodruff.

  "Pardon me," Woodruff said as he swept a hand toward Smith. "This is J.D. Smith. He did me a favor this evening and I hoped you might provide him with a room."

  Anne Pritchard pursed her mouth. "Well, all the rooms are taken, but I can fix up a couch in the den if that is acceptable. Such temporary accommodations are less than room rates, of course."

  Smith tipped his tall top hat. "A couch would be more than ample, madam."

  "There's a livery about three blocks back down Main."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Pritchard, but I'd prefer that Redemption stay close at hand."

  "He defecates in front of my boarding house and you'll clean it up, Mr. Smith." The owner of the boarding house didn't seem happy at the idea of Redemption standing in front of her establishment all night.

  "Yes, ma'am," Smith said. "May I point out that Redemption is a she, if you please?"

  She gave Smith a curt nod. "Come along, senator. Mr. Smith can come after he's tended to his animal friend."

  Smith chuckled. He unsaddled the Morgan mare and threw the horse tack over the hitching rail. From the bulging saddlebags, he extracted a gunnysack that had been made into a nosebag. It contained a good quart of oats, and he fitted the bag over Lucinda's ears so she could eat while he looked into his accommodations.

  Mrs. Pritchard left Smith in the den and showed Senator Woodruff to his room on the second floor. It proved somewhat larger than the normal hotel room, and it contained a large four-poster, an ornate commode with a china washbasin and water pitcher, two cedar dressers, and luxurious floor-length curtains that set off the carpeted floor.

  "Thank you for allowing Mr. Smith the use of the den for the night, Anne," said Senator Woodruff.

  Mrs. Pritchard swept across the room to open a curtain. "I do run a boarding house, senator, and extra income in these hard times is always appreciated. Is this Mr. Smith an acquaintance, then?"

  "Oh no. We first met on the stage, well, he arrived at the stage at a most fortuitous time."

  "Intriguing. Intriguing indeed."

  Woodruff poured himself a liberal dollop of bourbon from the complimentary bottle on the nightstand. "Highwaymen assaulted us not long after we left Casper," he said. "Mr. Smith appeared and drove off three of the bandits with the most expertise shooting I have ever seen. He shot two of the men in the shoulder and blew the horse out from under the third. He claims that he abhors killing and shot only to wound. Damnedest thing I ever saw."

  "What happened to the outlaws?"

  "Smith left them trussed up by the side of the road with a note pinned to the unwounded one proclaiming them outlaws and highwaymen. He said that stretch of road is frequently traveled by lawmen and they would likely be picked up soon. I, of course, invited him to ride in the coach as we were going the same way."

  "He seemed quite gentlemanly," Mrs. Pritchard said. "Not at all one who would go in for fancy shooting."

/>   "He shoots extraordinarily well," Woodruff said, stifling a yawn.

  "Oh, you must be dead tired. Let me turn down the bedclothes." She went to the four-poster, turned down the covers, and fluffed the pillow. "There. Now, what time do you wish to arise?"

  "Six thirty in the morning, if you don't mind. The stage east leaves early, and I must get back to Washington to vote on the Indian bill."

  "As you wish, senator."

  "Oh, could you also package some victuals for Mr. Smith, compliments of me, please? And I will pay his room fee as well."

  "Very good, senator. Would that be all?"

  "Yes, it would. Excuse me now, it's been a long day and I'd like to retire."

  "Certainly," Mrs. Pritchard said. She swept from the room with her back straight as an iron rod and her skirts swirling.

  Senator Woodruff realized he'd kept Scarecrow Jim's newspaper. He sat down in the overstuffed chair near the lamp to read the editorial on his Indian bill. "Lies," he muttered. "Balderdash and lies." He rolled up the paper, smacked his leg with it, and tossed it on the nightstand.

  Something tapped at the window.

  Woodruff pulled back the curtain to see what. The wind was blowing and the limbs of a big old oak tree brushed the side of the building, making the noise.

  Finding the room a bit stuffy, Senator Woodruff decided to open the window. He gave the window frame an upward push. It refused to move. He felt around the frame and found the latch on its top. This he undid, then lifted the window and drank in the warm Cheyenne air.

  The senator went back to his overstuffed chair as the breeze ruffled the curtains. He picked up his half-empty glass of bourbon and sipped. A good fragrant whiskey, he found. He picked up the bottle. Old Grand-Dad. Not the most expensive, but excellent as a complimentary bottle. He tipped a bit more into his glass.