The Guns of Vedauwoo (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series Book 6)

by Wayne D. Dundee

  "Hunters bagging some fresh meat," Cory amended. "Nothing for us to be concerned about."

  "It's quite common for this area, dear," Jonathan said to his fiancé. "My first visit to Vedauwoo—the trip that allowed me to get those initial photographs that so impressed William—was with a party of hunters. We really have no reason to be alarmed."

  "No reason as long as they're careful about which way they aim their loud old nasty guns," Alice insisted. "A stray bullet can be just as deadly as a purposefully aimed one, can it not?"

  "No worries, Alice. They're too far away," floated down William's voice. "Besides, no bullet can twist and turn its way through all the boulders and mounds between us and where they're shooting from."Craning her shapely neck to peer up at the climber, Melanie flashed a teasing smile and said, "That may be true for those of us down here on the ground—but what about you, scampering around up there like a giant fly on a slice of angel food cake? What if they can see you from wherever they're at and decide you might make something interesting to have stuffed and mounted in their trophy room?"

  William grinned down at her. "That's not even funny."

  "No, it's not," said Alice stiffly. "Not funny at all."

  Cory shrugged. "Either way, ain't nothing to get in a tizzy over. Just hunters huntin'. No reason to think they even know we're here."

  * * *

  Cash had little trouble finding the spot where Flynn Remsen and the black stranger had field-dressed their deer. From there it was easy enough to cut sign for the route the pair had subsequently taken. It wasn't surprising that they made no effort to hide their tracks; they had no reason to think it necessary.

  Dusk was descending now, the sun only a fading glow behind Vedauwoo's western peaks. Cash moved along cautiously but briskly. He had little doubt he could find his way back to his own camp by the light of the moon and stars, but not even he was a good enough tracker to follow ground sign if it got too dark.

  He'd covered little more than a half mile from the deer kill site, however, when he smelled smoke from a fresh fire and the unmistakable aroma of coffee cooking. He slowed his pace and stayed to the shadows cast by surrounding aspen and fir as he continued to edge forward. When the trees gave way to a sprawl of rock and rubble spilled away from the base of one of the sharply rising escarpments found so frequently within Vedauwoo, he could see a handful of men hunched over a small fire at the mouth of a ragged notch cut back into a pile of massive boulders.

  Cash eased up as close as he dared, then dropped to his right knee with his Winchester resting across his left thigh. There were three men gathered around the fire. Two of them were Flynn Remsen and the black stranger Cash had seen earlier through his field glasses. The third was none other than Elmer Post, leader of the gang Remsen was known to have been riding with in recent years.

  The men were talking in low voices as they cut up generous slices of the venison and hung them on a spit over the fire.

  "We ain't gonna go hungry while we're holed up here, that much is for sure," the black man was saying. "All kinds of game out there, just waiting to be taken. And I bet there's plenty of fish in some of these streams and ponds, too."

  "Why do you think I steered us here?" Elmer replied. "Once we'd set a false trail leadin' that stupid damn posse back toward Nebraska, I knew there wasn't no better place to head for."

  Remsen stabbed at a piece of meat with an aggression that indicated he wasn't feeling anywhere near as content as his two companions. "Well, I'm real glad you two are so tickled over bein' hunkered down in a pile of rocks gnawin' on wild game and a bunch of bony fish," he grumbled. "Me, I had this silly notion that with my cut of the money we hauled off the Omaha Flyer the other night I'd be livin' a helluva lot higher on the hog than this."

  "Jesus, don't you ever get sick of bellyachin'?" Elmer wanted to know.

  "When I do, you'll be the first to know. And you know when that'll be? When we get somewhere where I can start spendin' free and livin' high, that's when."

  "The money—including your cut—ain't going nowhere," the black man pointed out. "When the time is right for us to ride out of here, it'll still spend just fine."

  "Yeah, and it'd spend just as goddamn fine right now, too—The sooner the better, says I."

  "Awright, that's enough," Elmer barked irritably. "It's already settled. Nobody's goin' nowhere to spend nothin' until Virgil is healed enough to ride. Then we'll split the take from that train job and go our separate ways. Me'n Virg will be headed back to Oklahoma, the rest of you can aim where you please ... In the meantime, nobody's cuttin' out on their own to run the risk of gettin' caught by that posse and leadin' 'em back here while my brother ain't strong enough to have any chance of ridin' clear."

  Remsen thrust out his chin defiantly. "How long we been ridin' together, Elmer? You don't know me well enough by now to know there ain't no chance in hell I'd ever spill to any damn posse and lead 'em back to you? That's a hell of a thing to say to me!"

  "It's true we've been together a long time, Flynn. And I trust you like blood kin," Elmer allowed. "But I got my mind made up on this. We don't scatter from here until we're all able to scatter together."

  Remsen muttered something in response, only Cash couldn't make out what it was.

  But he'd already heard enough to have his mind racing. They'd mentioned robbing a train, the Omaha Flyer. Cash recalled Chief Penn saying something back in Cheyenne about having men out investigating a train robbery. That had to be this bunch—the Elmer Post gang. And now, while a posse presumably including one or more of Cash's fellow marshals was off chasing an alleged "false trail", here he was with the robbers all of a sudden practically in his lap!

  Under different circumstances, he might welcome this ironic turn of events. Might even consider it a stroke of luck. Never one to lack self-confidence, Cash figured that, with the element of surprise working in his favor, he could manage to get the drop on these owlhoots and have them in irons before full dark. If he wanted to. Only there was where a dilemma entered in ... If he saddled himself with taking these three—make that four, counting the wounded "Virgil", who apparently was laid up farther back in the cave-like notch—into custody, where would that leave him as far as being able to intercept and stop Vilo Creed if and when he showed up?

  Cash swore under his breath.

  The only good thing about this predicament, he told himself, was that he didn't have to decide right then and there how he wanted to handle it. From what he'd overheard, it didn't sound like Elmer or his men would be going anywhere any time soon. On the other hand, he could hardly afford to ignore them—not for very long. With Creed expected to make an appearance in the next day or so, the last thing Cash needed was for the Post Gang to still be on the loose and in the same vicinity when it came time for him to try and apprehend the fugitive half breed. There was little doubt whose side Elmer and his pack would take if they caught wind of anybody going up against a lawman.

  Cash pondered a minute longer. He'd just about made up his mind to return to his own camp and chew things a little finer there. But then, from only a foot or so directly behind him, the unmistakable click of a revolver being cocked froze him exactly as he was.

  "I don't know who the hell you are, mister. But I double-damn sure know you don't belong here," grumbled a low voice from right about where the hammer-cock had sounded. "Get those hands in the air and follow 'em up. On your feet, real slow. Let the rifle drop ... Make even one wrong twitch, I'll blow your head into the middle of tomorrow."

  Cash did as he was told. Straightened up slow and careful, let his Winchester slip to the ground.

  "Danton, is that you?" somebody called from the camp. "What the hell's goin' on out there?"

  "Keep a sharp eye peeled, Elmer," responded the man behind Cash. "Caught somebody skulkin' the camp. Might be more. I got the drop on this one, I'm gonna bring him—"

  In that instant—that split second while the man behind him was overly confident he had eve
rything under control and his attention was momentarily diverted by the exchange with Elmer—Cash sensed he had the best chance he was likely to get for trying to escape this predicament. If he waited until he was led into the camp, where he would be under the muzzles of four guns instead of just one, the odds against him would multiply accordingly and after they spotted his badge they might simply shoot him down like a dog, no further questions asked.

  Making this decision, he abruptly collapsed at the knees and dropped into a low crouch—low enough so that he hoped he had ducked under the pistol allegedly aimed at the back of his head. At the same time he pitched backward with his torso and shoulders, slamming his upper body into that of the man breathing down his neck, kicking his legs straight again and driving his full weight as hard as he could into chest, ribs, and a spongy stomach. His target emitted a loud grunt and a whumpf! of sour-smelling breath as he staggered backward under the impact. The pistol he'd been aiming—arm now draped over Cash's shoulder, gun hand extended out away from his face—discharged with a fierce roar. As the shooter's feet became entangled and he started to topple to the ground, dragging Cash with him, Cash grabbed the arm braced over his shoulder and wrenched savagely downward, forcing the arm to bend in a way it never was meant to bend. The elbow socket popped and cracked like a dry tree branch being busted up for kindling and it's owner screamed in agony.

  Cash and the shooter—Danton, Elmer Post had called him—hit the ground hard, Cash's weight again slamming the man who only seconds ago had him under the gun. The marshal arced his back, grinding down a moment longer on Danton, now pinned under him. Then he snapped forward to a sitting position, pausing only long enough to slash viciously backward with each of his elbows, using them to batter either side of Danton's head.

  Springing to his feet, Cash drew his own Colt with his right hand and also took time to reach down with his left and snatch up the pistol that had fallen from the other man's grip when Cash broke his arm. He couldn't see where his Winchester had ended up and he couldn't afford time to hunt for it.

  In the robbers' camp, the men there were all on their feet, scrambling excitedly and bringing into view a menacing array of guns.

  "Danton! Danton! What the hell is goin' on out there?" Elmer Post demanded.

  "Take cover, Elmer," Danton responded in an agonized groan. "The bastard got the better of me!"

  "You heard the man," Cash snarled as he planted his feet wide and took a stance in the murkiness behind the tree line. "Duck for cover, you sonsabitches!"

  With a pistol in each hand, Cash opened up on the camp, pouring in a rapid-fire barrage that kicked up dust and campfire sparks and whined off rocks like a symphony of sizzling lead. If Elmer and the others had been scrambling excitedly before, now they were sent into a leaping, diving frenzy that was almost comical as they sought to gain some kind of cover amidst the boulders and broken rubble. A moment later, however, when they rose back up brandishing their weapons and taking wild aim, there was nothing funny about the hail of hot lead they sent blazing back as return fire. Bullets sang through the air high and low, slapping through tree leaves, splattering underbrush.

  But by then Cash had already wheeled about and was beating a retreat, streaking away through the deepening shadows of descending dusk. Before he dissolved from sight entirely, though, one stubborn slug managed to catch up with him and cut a burning furrow about six inches under his right armpit. The punch of the bullet staggered him for two or three steps but he continued running and a moment later there was no sign of him.

  In his wake, he could hear Danton wailing, "Elmer! Fellas! Jesus Christ, don't forget I'm still out here, too—Watch where you're shootin', dammit!"

  -SIX-

  On the south side of Vedauwoo, five people stood in uneasy silence. All were cast partly in the soft shadows of arriving dusk and partly in the flickering gold-orange glow thrown by the large campfire around which they were gathered. All were gazing off to the north, faces set in expressions of concern, eyes shining anxiously.

  It was Jonathan Kelsey who broke the silence, saying, "I'm hardly a wilderness veteran, but all that shooting—it sure didn't sound like hunters to me."

  "Wasn't," responded Leonard Cory tersely, the lines in his leathery old face deepened by a hard frown.

  "What was it then?" Jonathan wanted to know.

  "Can't say for certain ... But it sounded more like a gunfight of some kind."

  "That's exactly what it sounded like," agreed William Hattner.

  Alice Amberson looked startled. "You mean, as in men shooting at one another?"

  "That's the way it usually works," said William.

  "But a gunfight clear out here in the middle of nowhere?" Melanie Parsons gave a faint shake of her pretty blonde head. "What could be the reason for something like that?"

  Cory grunted. "Some men don't need a whole lot of reason to start throwin' lead back and forth." His eyes were scanning edgily. "If that shot we heard earlier came from somebody in a hunting party, then maybe some members of the party got into a disagreement, had a falling out over something. Maybe liquor involved ... Maybe a pack of lawmen or bounty hunters ran an owlhoot to ground up there—wouldn't be the first time an outlaw on the dodge tried to lose himself in Vedauwoo until the heat cooled off him."

  "It couldn't be Indians, could it?" blurted Alice, her voice trembling.

  "The Indians are all on reservations, dear," Jonathan told her soothingly. "Besides, if it were Indians, there wouldn't have been near as much shooting. They strike silently. Bows and arrows, remember?"

  Cory gave the pair of soon-to-be-weds a pitying look. "Just for the record," he said, "even though I don't figure that's what's going on—Indians have been known to jump their reservations. And they've also been known to find ways of getting their hands on guns and learning to use them right smart."

  "Oh my God!" Alice wailed.

  Jonathan scowled at Cory. "That was a cruel and unnecessary thing for you to say, sir."

  Cory spread his hands. "Just tellin' it straight, that's all."

  "It seems to me," interjected William, "that the main question we need to address is whether or not those shots—whatever their origin or cause—present any potential threat to us."

  "The simplest and safest answer to that," Cory replied, "is to go ahead and reckon they do—or at least might. That means we ought to take some basic precautions, starting by not advertising our presence here any more than need be. We should douse our fire and run a cold camp for the balance of the night. Forget the tents, too. Best if we stick together, sort of forted up. Suggest you bring your sleeping gear from the tents and we all bunch up around the wagon, with somebody standing guard through 'til morning."

  William nodded. "That all sounds reasonable to me. I say we do exactly as Mr. Cory suggests."

  Alice bristled immediately and visibly. "No fire? No hot food? The lot of us crammed together in a sleeping arrangement not unlike a—a Roman orgy? I should say not! I will remind one and all that I am a lady."

  "What is that supposed to mean—that I'm not?" demanded Melanie.

  Alice met her fiery glare. "I don't hear you protesting against such outlandish proposals."

  "I'm not protesting because they make good sense."

  "Ladies, ladies—please." Jonathan held up his hands and tried to insert himself between the two women. "Remember you are the best of friends. Compose yourselves before you say something you will both regret."

  "Shut up, Jonathan!" Alice and Melanie shouted in unison.

  "I suggest all three of you take that advice," William said offhandedly, as he joined Cory in starting to kick dirt and gravel over the campfire, smothering the flames. "Put aside your thoughts of personal comfort and prissy proprieties—you, Alice, especially—and start thinking about what you can do for our overall good. You can begin by striking those tents and bringing the sleeping blankets over to spread under the wagon, exactly as Mr. Cory instructed."

  Jonathan stiffe
ned. "I don't think I care for your tone, William. Particularly not directed toward my fiancé in such a manner."

  "We can take up your displeasure with my rudeness another time, Jonathan," replied William as he continued to help kill the fire. "In the meantime, if you truly wish to show some spine and make noises like a man, then you'd be well advised to start by standing up to the love of your life and getting her to do something constructive for a change—or, at the very least, cease her endless whining and complaining."

  * * *

  In the train robbers' camp, a considerable amount of discord was also taking place.

  In addition to breaking James Danton's arm, Cash had caused further damage to the Post Gang when one of the bullets from his double-barreled barrage ricocheted straight into the scrawny left thigh of Flynn Remsen, shattering the main bone there. Since this was the leg already affected by the damaged hip from a previous bullet wound, this new injury left the victim not only in great pain but it diminished his mobility to practically nothing.

  "That dirty, miserable sonofabitch," Remsen was lamenting from where he leaned back on a flat boulder near the crackling campfire, his freshly bandaged and splinted leg propped up on a saddle. "Why did it have to be me he shot? I was already half-crippled, why did he have to go and make it worse? Everything bad always happens to me!"

  "You think this busted arm is a picnic?" Danton said through gritted teeth. He was a bearish man with massive shoulders and bulging jowls under a thick, curly beard. "You ain't the only one who caught some bad luck here this evening, Flynn, so quit carrying on like you are."

  "Yeah, and we all know who we can thank for every bit of it, don't we?" Remsen snapped back. "You had the sonofabitch right under your gun. What'd you do—take time to scratch your nuts so he had the chance to turn tables on you?"