Edward A. Grainger's
Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles Series
Miles to Little Ridge
as written by
Heath Lowrance
Copyright © 2011 by BEAT to a PULP
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
The stories herein are works of fiction. All of the characters, places, and events portrayed in this collection are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover image from Shutterstock (www.shutterstock.com); Design by dMix.
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Other titles from BEAT to a PULP available on Kindle:
Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles
Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles Vol. II
BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled
BEAT to a PULP: A Rip through Time
Also available from Heath Lowrance:
The Bastard Hand
Dig Ten Graves
That Damned Coyote Hill
CONTENTS
Credits
ONE: Christian and the Swede
TWO: By Ax or By Fist
THREE: An Uncomfortable Meal
FOUR: Re-Grouping
FIVE: A Lawman's Chance
About the Author
Connect with BEAT to a PULP
-ONE-
Christian and the Swede
Lars the Swede chopped wood in the yard out front of the livery stable, and Christian, sitting on a large stump, watched him. It was fascinating, watching the Swede work. He'd heft the ax in his big hands, swing it like a piston, and cleave the logs and stumps with one powerful swoop. Wood chips would fly every which way and the two halves would drop to either side. And the Swede would take up another chunk, put it on the chopping block, and do it again, over and over, sweat shining on his thick torso and dripping down his long, square jaw.
Truth be told, it made Christian feel kinda funny.
He tore his eyes away, said, "You need some water, Lars?"
The Swede grunted, shook his head, taking up another log. He didn't even slow down. He was one wood-chopping son-of-a-bitch, the Swede.
The road through the center of Little Ridge was about fifty yards away, and Christian made his eyes stay on it, away from the Swede. It was mid-morning, and the sleepy mountain town was just waking up. People strolled up and down, doing what normal town folk did on Tuesday mornings. Across the way, he could hear the blacksmith pounding away on his anvil, almost in time to the Swede's chopping. The horses nickered in the stable behind them. Occasionally, one of the farmers or goatherds outside of town would rumble by in a rickety horse-drawn cart, hard-faced fellas who would make the trip into Little Ridge for supplies or a quick whiskey at Mr. Bly's place before heading back out to the hardscrabble life they'd made for themselves.
Christian was damn glad he wasn't one of those farmers or herders. That was no life for an ambitious man. But then again, working at the livery stable wasn't exactly the top of the social scale either.
He said, almost wistfully, "Lars, when we gonna get out of this goddamn town? I'm itching for another job."
The Swede stopped chopping. He rested the ax next to him, wiped sweat from his forehead. "I'm thinking about that. Next month, the bank in Helena is receiving a deposit from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It'll be there for two days before it's transferred out."
Christian said, "Government money? That'd be kinda ... risky, wouldn't it?"
The Swede shrugged, and Christian knew it wasn't going to happen. They'd been in this drag of a town for almost a year now, slaving like dogs, and before that it had been Deer Lodge out in the western part of the state. They'd talked a mean streak about doing another job, but nothing had come of it.
They'd been proper outlaws, once. Stagecoach and small bank jobs all through the Montana Territory and down into Wyoming. But that seemed a long time ago now.
The Swede went to the trough for some water, and Christian pulled out his pouch and fashioned a couple of cigarettes for them. After the Swede drank his fill, he took a smoke from Christian, bent in for the light from Christian's lucifer. They stood there and smoked for a while, not speaking.
They had an odd partnership, Christian thought. The Swede, enormous and hard as a boulder, a devil with the ladies, and Christian wiry and slender and homely. Folks always assumed Christian was the brains of the outfit—someone as big and handsome as the Swede couldn't possibly be the smart one—but they were wrong. The Swede called the shots.
"Well," Christian said, "all I know is we gotta do something soon. I can't take much more of this backwater town."
The Swede grinned around his smoke, clapped the smaller man on the back. "Patience, my good man. A job worth doing doesn't just come along every day, you know. Why—"
He stopped talking, as if his words had hit a stone wall. Christian glanced at him just in time to see the smoke fall from between the Swede's lips. His intense blue eyes were focused on the road.
Christian followed his gaze.
A rider on a solid gray grullo was ambling up the road. A Negro, riding ramrod straight in the saddle. Even under the layer of trail dust, his clothes were well-cut and tailored, and his hat was pushed back enough to show a rugged, fine-boned face. He nodded amiably as he rode past a cluster of townsfolk at the corner, kept going in the direction of the Sheriff's office.
"I'll be a son-of-a-bitch," the Swede said.
"What? What is it?"
"I'll be a son-of-a-bitch!" the Swede said again, louder this time.
"What the hell, Lars. What's got into you?"
The Swede stood up, his fists clenched. "Gideon Miles. That's what's got into me. Goddamn Gideon Miles."
Christian frowned. "Okay, then. Who the hell is Gideon Miles?"
"A U.S. Marshal out of goddamn Wyoming, that's who." He turned to Christian, and his face was twisted and red with anger. "Remember, I told you about that bank job I did out in Nevada two years ago? When we had the loot and were out in the street and everything was going lickety-split?"
"That's familiar," Christian said, even though it wasn't.
"We come out of the bank, and standing there pretty as you please is that goddamn Marshal, Gideon Miles. He wasn't even looking for us. The black bastard just happened to be walking by, if you can figure that. But my buddy Clive, my life-long bosom pal, sees him there in the road with his stupid shiny star and he throws down on him. And that Marshal—"
The Swede choked a little before gathering himself. "That Marshal pulled his gun and shot Clive right in the heart. Killed him, plumb outright."
Christian looked back at the road, although the Marshal had ridden on and was no longer in sight. "I don't rightly recollect you telling me about that, Lars."
The Swede said, "Fuck, Christian, you never listen to a word I say, do you? Makes me wonder how good a friend you really are."
"Hey, now, there's no need for that sort of talk, Lars. I'd never—"
"Never mind that. Where's our guns?"
Christian said, "Lars ... we don't have no guns. You told me to hock 'em last month, remember?"
"Goddamnit!" the Swede yelled, loud enough this time for the folks in the road to pause and look at them. He stomped around like an angry child for a full thirty seconds, cursing and screaming, swinging his fists at imaginary foes.
Finally, he cooled down enough for Christian to say, "What did you think you were gonna do, Lars?"
The Swede looked at him, and a dangerous light glinted in his eyes. "I'll show you what I thought I was gonna do," he said. "I'll s
how you right and proper."
He picked up the ax and made a bee-line for the road.
Christian stared after him for a moment, his face creased with worry.
"Shit," he said, and hurried off after the Swede.
-TWO-
By Ax or By Fist
The Sheriff's office was a loose collection of cast-off lumber at the end of the road. There was a tin awning above the open door held up by a couple of wooden poles. The place looked as if it had been slapped together by a drunk twelve-year-old.
Gideon Miles reined up in front, dismounted, and brushed the dust off his shoulders. Through a wide crack between two pieces of wall, he could see a pair of boots propped on a sawhorse inside. As he approached the door, the boots came down with a clunk.
A heavy-chested man with reddish-gray mutton chops met him under the tin awning. Miles put him at somewhere around forty, but booze had aged his face. The nose was swollen and red with broken capillaries, the jowls thick. Two bloodshot eyes peered out from under the brim of his hat. He wasn't wearing a gun, but the Sheriff's star glittered in the mid-morning light.
"Something I can help you with, boy?"
Miles ignored the 'boy' comment but noted it as strike one. He said, "U.S. Marshal. Looking for a man."
The Sheriff straightened up a bit, eyed the badge on Mile's chest. He said, "U.S. Marshal? Ain't no such thing as a Negro U.S. Marshal."
Miles said, "You're looking at one, Sheriff. Shall we talk inside?"
The Sheriff frowned, forcing his jowls somewhere down around his neck. He said, "Ain't no wanted criminals in Little Ridge, I can tell you that much."
"Inside, Sheriff."
The Sheriff shrugged and went in. Miles followed him. The only furniture was the sawhorse, two battered wooden chairs, and a cluttered roll-top desk. The cell at the back was made of wood and didn't look strong enough to hold an unruly baby.
The Sheriff sat down in one of the wooden chairs and propped his feet up on the sawhorse again. Miles showed him the warrant, and the Sheriff took it between stubby fingers and looked it over.
"Edward Gandy?" he said. "Now I know you're loco, boy. Edward Gandy ain't no criminal."
"He's wanted for robbery in two states," Miles said, noting the second 'boy.' "My sources have put him in or around Little Ridge. Now tell me, Sheriff—where do I find him?"
The Sheriff shook his head, leaned over to spit on the ragged wooden floor. "I don't care if you are a U.S. Marshal, I won't have some Negro coming to my town and harassing my citizens. Edward Gandy ain't—"
"Sheriff," Miles said. "I'm not going to argue with you. I've just ridden three hundred miles. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm in no mood. You're going to tell me where to find Gandy, and you're going to do it with a smile on your face, because you're just happy as hell to help. I'm going to ask you one more time. Where is Edward Gandy?"
There was a knife edge in Miles' voice that caused the Sheriff to pause. The two men stared at each other for a long moment before the Sheriff dropped his gaze. He muttered under his breath, "Goddamn Marshals, comin' to my town, pushin' me around ..."
Miles gave him a minute to get it out of his system. Finally the Sheriff said, "He lives with his daughter over by Ridge Creek. He's a farmer, has been for over three years."
Miles nodded. "Good enough. Now what I need from you are two or three of your deputies. I'll be riding up there in about—"
"No deputies. I ain't got any."
"Okay, then. You and me."
The Sheriff shook his head. "No, not a chance. I don't care if you're the President of these here United States. I ain't going up there to bother Edward Gandy. You want him, you're on your own."
Miles laughed. "So be it. I'm a little doubtful you'd be much help anyway."
The Sheriff said, "I don't know who you think you are, boy, but—"
Miles kicked out at the sawhorse, sending it skittering across the room. The Sheriff's boots dropped to the floor and he nearly pitched over face-forward. He caught himself on the chair, and looked at Miles with a face gone slack and stupid with surprise.
Miles said, "The name's not 'boy', Sheriff. It's Gideon Miles. U.S. Marshal Gideon Miles. I'd advise you to remember that."
He turned and walked out of the office.
* * *
Under the awning, Miles paused and pulled out his pipe. He stuffed some tobacco in the bowl, lit up, and sucked smoke. Pipe clenched between his teeth, he let his gaze drift up the road, to the relative hustle and bustle around the store fronts and businesses. It wasn't Cheyenne, not by a long shot, but it was more civilization than he'd seen in over a week on the trail.
Not far up, he spotted a livery stable. Smoking, he took the grullo's reins and started to walk it over.
From his left, someone shouted, "Die, you black son-of-a-bitch!" and Miles saw a big, shirtless man hefting an ax coming at him.
He didn't pause to ponder on the unexpected nature of it. Miles' right hand dropped to the Colt in his holster, but he knew instantly that the ax-wielding man was too close. Roaring, the stranger swung the ax, and Miles stepped back and dropped to one knee.
The ax-blade swooped so close Miles felt the breeze of it along his jaw. From his low position, Miles jabbed with a sharp right and then a left into the big man's mid-section. Neither punch carried much power, but they were enough to cause the stranger to grunt and lose his footing. He got pulled along, stumbling, with the trajectory of his ax.
Miles was up in a heartbeat. The attacker found himself facing away from his target, and Miles used the momentary advantage to deliver a swift kick to the man's ass. The man stumbled a few steps forward but didn't fall.
Again, Miles hand went to his gun, but to the right a blur of motion caught his attention a split-second before the full weight of another attacker barreled into him. The Colt was knocked out of his hand.
This second man was much smaller, a wiry little bundle of sinew. Not very strong, either—even at full tilt he wasn't able to knock Miles down.
Miles locked a grip around his neck—an old Indian fighting technique his friend and partner Cash Laramie had taught him—and exerted enough pressure to make the smaller man fall to his knees. Once he was there, Miles punched him in the nose. There was a satisfying crack of cartilage, blood blossoming across the man's face, and then the only thing holding him up was Miles.
Miles stepped back, let the man fall, just as the one with the ax got his bearings again. "You dirty bastard!" the man screamed. "You killed my buddy Clive! My life-long bosom pal! You're gonna die!"
And he rushed at Miles, ax raised high.
The name Clive nudged some memory cells in Miles' head—not enough to picture him, but enough to at least realize why this big lunatic was attacking him. It wasn't the first time Miles had had to deal with a revenge-crazed outlaw.
Miles ducked under the ax, and the blade smashed into one of the flimsy poles holding up the tin awning. The whole thing came crashing down on both of them.
The attacker got the worst of it. While a few pieces of tin bounced off Miles' hat, the edge of the awning caught the big man on the temple, leaving a nasty gash that flooded blood into his eyes.
Miles flicked his right wrist, and a thin blade popped out from his sleeve—it was a spring-loaded mechanism he always wore, as much a part of his wardrobe as a tie or watch-chain. He seldom had call to use it. Now was one of those times.
While the big man was blinded, Miles stepped in, slashed along the man's bare chest. He was deliberately avoiding a killing move, although he had every call to use lethal force by now. He abhorred killing, except in the most unavoidable circumstances.
The big man howled in pain and dropped the ax. Blood poured from the gash along his chest and from his temple.
The Sheriff chose that moment to come out of his office. "What the hell is going on out here?"
Miles glanced at him, and the big man took the opportunity to bolt. Miles looked around, spotted his gun, bent to pi
ck it up. The Sheriff said again, "What the hell is going on, goddamnit?" and by the time Miles looked again the attacker was gone, vanishing around the corner of the restaurant and down an alley.
The smaller man was gone, too.
"Ya'll busted my awning up!" the Sheriff whined. "It took me two days to build that!"
Miles sighed, holstered his gun. At some point, he'd lost his pipe. He found it amidst all the broken and jagged tin, picked it up and dusted it off. He stuck it, unlit, in his mouth.
"Who were those men?"
The Sheriff's face went neutral and stupid again. He said, "Well, I don't rightly—"
"Who were they, Sheriff?"
The Sheriff scowled. "Couple of new fellas in town. They work over at the livery stable. The big one's called the Swede. The little one is ... um ... Christopher, or Christian, or some such. Now about my roof—"
"Bill the livery stable."
"Goddamnit, boy—"
Miles looked at him, dark eyes burning.
The Sheriff said, "I mean, uh, Mr. Miles, sir. I just ... well, never mind."
Miles took the grullo's reins and headed for the stable. He didn't expect that his attackers would be there, but the horse needed tending to anyway.
He was particularly partial to the horse, Smoke, and aimed to see that the animal's needs were met before his own. The Swede and Christopher or Christian weren't there, of course. After making sure Smoke was fed and well-tended, Miles stepped back out into the road.
He remembered Clive now. One didn't come across too many fellows by that name. It had to be Clive Ross. It had been about two years earlier, and Miles was in Reno with his partner Cash, chasing after a murderer by the name of Blackfoot Joe Hardy. The killer had slaughtered ten men and four women over a three-month period, and Cash had eventually caught up to him.
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