Miles to Little Ridge

by Heath Lowrance

  But that day in Reno, Miles had just left his hotel room and was heading for the barber's shop when a small band of robbers came pouring out of the bank, guns blazing. One of them—Clive Ross—had drawn on Miles, and Miles had shot him dead.

  The bank robbers had fled, but over the following year each one of them had been captured or killed. Except for—

  Miles stopped in mid-stride. Except for one, Lars Henderson. The Swede.

  Miles chuckled to himself. Funny how fate threw you a bone every now and again. He decided that, once he had Gandy in custody, he would send a telegram to Cash and ask him to come out to help him search for the Swede and his new accomplice.

  But first things first. Hunger gnawed at him. Just on the other side of the road, there was a restaurant with the legend Garden of Eden Fine Eats above the door. Miles headed for it.

  -THREE-

  An Uncomfortable Meal

  There were only six patrons in the place, but they all looked up from their meals when Miles came in. A fat man eating a bowl of soup dropped his spoon. It clattered against his bowl and fell to the floor, ridiculously loud in the sudden silence.

  Miles had experienced the same sort or reaction before, many times, but it had always been in saloons, with hard men drinking and music playing and cigar smoke hanging in the air. He'd never seen it happen in a regular eating establishment, with table cloths and normal folks. It almost struck him as funny. Almost.

  He stepped in, and a man in a shabby, food-stained tuxedo scurried up to him. "We don't serve Negros or Indians here," he said, bending his head at a sign in the door.

  "You do now," Miles said.

  He walked past the man, took a seat at a table in the far corner so he could keep an eye on the door. The man watched him, clearly unable to decide what to do. The fat man who'd dropped his spoon huffed, said, "Unacceptable," and got up to leave. At the door, he stopped long enough to glare at Miles over his shoulder.

  Miles smiled at him, but the smile was forced.

  The maître de stalked over and said, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

  "I'll have a bowl of chili," Miles said. "And a beer."

  "I'm not going to tell you again, mister—"

  "No," Miles said, "you're not." He tapped the badge on his chest. "If you don't serve Negros or Indians, how do you feel about U.S. Marshals?"

  "U.S. Marshals? Well, I—"

  "Bowl of chili. Beer." Miles looked away from him.

  The maître de left to get his order. The other patrons went back to their meals, and Miles steeled himself, willed the anger to wash over him and away, off to someplace else where it couldn't cause any harm.

  After a couple of minutes, a very young, very pretty girl with dirty blonde hair came to the table with his food. She actually smiled at him as she set the bowl of chili and the mug of beer in front of him, but Miles didn't smile back. He hardly looked at her.

  He started eating, and the girl said, "I hope you don't judge all of us by the actions of a few. We ain't all ignorant, mister."

  Between mouthfuls, Miles said, "I don't judge anybody. That's not my job."

  "Those are wise words, mister. Only the Lord can judge us. And the Lord don't care nothin' about the color of a man's skin."

  He looked up at her. She just stood there, smiling, and he had no idea how to respond. He took up his mug and drank.

  "But we never had no Negro in here before," she said. "Least of all, no U.S. Marshal Negro."

  Miles said, "Will wonders never cease?"

  "What brings you to Little Ridge, if'n you don't mind me asking?"

  He didn't really feel up to a pleasant meal-time conversation, but the girl seemed so friendly and eager to please he couldn't bring himself to be rude to her. He said, "I'm looking for a wanted criminal by the name of Edward Gandy. You know him?"

  She stiffened, and a sharp little exhale of alarm huffed out of her. "Edward?" she asked. "What ... what you want with Edward?"

  "I just told you, miss. You know him, I take it?"

  "Edward ain't no criminal, mister. You must've made some kind of mistake."

  "That's what your Sheriff was telling me. But there's no mistake."

  The other patrons were watching them, and the girl flushed red with embarrassment. "Why, Edward Gandy is as fine a man as ever walked. He's ... he's kind and courteous and carries himself like a true gentleman. Surely you have the wrong man, mister Marshal."

  Miles said, "I don't know anything about Mr. Gandy. He's been accused, and I'm here to take him in to stand trial."

  "For what, pray tell?"

  "Three different counts of robbery, in two states."

  She said, "Never!" and her voice echoed through the restaurant. She flushed deeper, trying to ignore the stares. In a softer voice, she said, "Never, I tell you. Edward ain't no thief. Anyone who says different is a liar, plain and simple."

  "That may be," Miles said. "A jury of his peers will make that decision, not me, and not you."

  The woman hesitated a moment, and then pulled out a chair and sat next to him. The patrons didn't like that. Most of them stopped eating and stared at them.

  Way too close, she said, "Listen, mister. Edward Gandy is a decent man, unlike most in this God-forsaken town. He works hard out at his farm. His wife ... well, she died about a year ago from the TB, and ever since he's been alone. He's got a nine-year-old girl, Clemmy, that he's raising up all by hisself. He's honest and good."

  Miles frowned. "If you don't mind me saying, miss, you sound inordinately fond of the man."

  She reddened again, but straightened her back and said, "Mr. Gandy and I are, well ... we're a-courting, if you must know. He comes to town twice a week, and we spend time together, ever since poor Mrs. Gandy passed. And in all that time, Edward has never done a single thing that would be questionable for a gentleman."

  "I don't doubt he's a gentleman. He's not wanted for being rude, miss. He's wanted for armed robbery."

  She stood up, sudden anger tightening her pretty face. "You don't know nothing. You think that tin badge on your chest makes you smart. But you ain't smart. I don't care nothing about the color of your skin, but I'll tell you this, mister Marshal. If I weren't a good Christian lady, I'd have a few choice words for you."

  She stormed away from him, and Miles watched her go. He glanced around at the patrons, who withered under his gaze and went back to their meals.

  Sighing, he picked up his spoon, pushed it around in the chili, but didn't eat any more. He'd lost his appetite.

  -FOUR-

  Re-Grouping

  "Well," Christian said, "that didn't go so good."

  "Shut up," the Swede said.

  They were in the little rented hovel they shared behind the post office. Roughly six feet square, there was barely room for the two bunks and the packing crate they kept all their belongings in. Christian had poured whiskey over the gash across the Swede's wide chest and was now trying to wrap an old linen around the wound. He'd already tended to the cut on the Swede's temple.

  The Swede's muscled chest heaved with pain, and sweat dripped down his torso. Christian's mouth felt dry, and he had that odd sensation in his stomach again whenever he looked at his friend. He willed it down, said, "You prob'ly shouldn't have just come at him with an ax like that, is what I'm thinking."

  "Shut up," the Swede said again. "Just wrap that thing tight, damnit."

  "But who would'a thought the bastard would be so quick? Still, it didn't go so good, did it?"

  The Swede swiped at Christian's head, and Christian ducked under it, said, "Hey, come on, I'm trying to help you here."

  "Fat lot of help you are. Just wrap it tight and shut your damn mouth already."

  Christian grumbled but did as he was told. When he was done, the Swede reached down for the bottle that sat on the floor between them. He took a long pull and neither of them spoke for a moment.

  After a moment, Christian said, "Can I talk now? Is that okay with you, i
f I open my damn mouth?"

  "I reckon so."

  "Good. I thank you. What I wanna ask you is, what now?"

  The Swede grimaced. "You're getting to be a smart-ass, you know that? But it's a fair question."

  "Well?"

  "I don't rightly know, do I? I can't let that son-of-a-bitch Marshal get away with it, though. He ain't likely to be in town long, and I'll be damned if I sit back and just watch him ride out."

  "Seems to me we need some guns or some-such."

  "Unless you got some scratch on you, I don't see how we can do that."

  Christian said, "Nothing, sorry. I'm stoney."

  The Swede took another deep drink from the bottle, burped, and a sly smile came over his face. He said, "Unless ... unless we steal a couple pieces."

  From the open doorway, a voice said, "I wouldn't recommend that."

  The Swede and Christian both nearly jumped out of their skins. They looked to see the Sheriff leaning against the doorjamb, a big grin on his red face. He had one hand on his hip and his round stomach thrust out over his belt buckle. In his other hand, he held a gunny sack.

  "Sheriff," Christian said, "What ... I mean to say, what brings you by, sir?"

  The Sheriff stood up straight, twirled a finger through his thick mutton chops. "Just stopped by to see how the Swede's holdin' up. That was a mighty blow on the head he took. And a nasty knife wound as well."

  The Swede shook his head. "Now see here, Sheriff, it ain't like you think. That bastard Negro killed—"

  "Save it, Swede. I ain't none too interested, truth to tell. But I feel it's my duty as Sheriff to inform you—you are one stupid, lug-headed ignoramus. If you don't mind me saying so."

  "Now listen—"

  "Coming at a U.S. Marshal with an ax, for Christ's sake. And all by your lonesome."

  Christian said, "Hey, he wasn't alone. I was there, backing him up."

  "Like I say, all by your lonesome."

  Christian crossed his arms and sat back against the wall, frowning petulantly.

  The Swede said, "Fine. So what? You gonna arrest us now?"

  The Sheriff scratched his round stomach under his shirt. "Well, I suppose I could do that. I mean to say, that's one option on the table. Or ..."

  "Or what?"

  The Sheriff tossed the gunny sack at the Swede. The Swede caught it, looked at him with a question on his face.

  "Go on," the Sheriff said, "open 'er up."

  The Swede opened the bag.

  Inside, he found two Colt .45's, well-oiled and clean, and a box of ammunition. A slow smile crept across his face.

  The Sheriff said, "The Marshal is headed up to the Gandy place. You know it?"

  The Swede shrugged, but Christian said, "Yeah. I know it."

  "Kinda isolated up there, ain't it?"

  Christian said, "Yeah. Very isolated."

  The Sheriff nodded, patted his stomach, said, "Well, it's past my lunch time, gentlemen. I'm off to the Garden for some chow, maybe a beer. Ya'll take care of yourselves, hear?"

  He left them alone, and Christian and the Swede stared at each other in disbelief, until Christian said, "Well, that was unexpected." They pulled the guns out and loaded up.

  -FIVE-

  A Lawman's Chance

  The woods outside of Little Ridge were sparse but green, scattered with ponderosa pines and dotted with Douglas-firs. The ground elevated the farther Gideon Miles rode, a steady incline up toward the Beaverhead Mountains in the distance, and a chill wind swept along the fields of snowberries. It would have been a nice place to linger, make camp, but there was a job to do.

  Smoke trotted steadily on, responding to every slight tug and push from his rider. Man and horse traversed the woods at a nice clip, and after a half-hour Miles smelled wood smoke, saw it billowing from the chimney of a modest wood-lined house along Ridge Creek.

  He reined up just before coming into the clearing. Across the creek, Gandy's small patch of land looked freshly cultivated. A couple mules fed at a trough on the far side of the house. About mid-way across the clearing stood a small but well-maintained shed, and about fifty yards from that a rickety mule cart.

  There was no sign of Gandy.

  Miles touched spurs to Smoke's sides, and the grullo moved into the clearing.

  He rode over the shallow creek, right up to the house, and still saw no activity. At the porch, he dismounted, placed Smoke's reins on the porch railing.

  His boot was on the landing when he caught a glimpse of movement at a window next to the door. A small blonde head peeked out from behind the lace curtains but jerked back when Miles looked.

  The daughter, he thought, frowning. Clemmy, the waitress had called her. Short for Clementine, like the old song? Whatever it was, he knew he had to play this one carefully—he wasn't willing to risk the child's life to bring in his man.

  He stepped up onto the porch and the door opened and a slight, drawn man stood there looking at him.

  Gandy was about forty years old, with a long melancholy face, scruffy sand-colored hair, and a small, almost feminine mouth. He said, "Something I can help you with, mister?" and then saw the badge on Miles' chest.

  His eyes widened only slightly, and he took a step back into the house.

  Miles said, "Mr. Edward Gandy, I wonder if I might ask you to step out here with me for a moment."

  From inside, the girl said, "Daddy? Who is it, Daddy?"

  "Never mind, Clemmy," Gandy said, not looking away from Miles. "Go to your room, girl."

  "But, Daddy—"

  "Do as I tell you." Gandy's pitch didn't change, didn't sharpen or threaten, but the girl did as she was told.

  Gandy said, "U.S. Marshal, eh? I was wondering when you'd show up for me."

  "Let's not play it hard, Gandy. Come on out."

  "I heard about the charges. I didn't do it, I tell you."

  "Just come outside, Gandy."

  "But my girl—"

  "We'll talk about that after you come out."

  Miles was being careful not to place his hand anywhere near his gun, and to keep his face neutral and unthreatening. But Gandy was beginning to get spooked, he could tell.

  "I was set up, I'm telling you. I never robbed nobody. You got to believe me."

  "It doesn't matter if I believe you, Gandy. It's not my job to believe or not believe. It's just my job to bring you in. Now I'm going to ask you again to step out—"

  "But I made a life for myself here," Gandy said, his voice grew higher, shriller. He took another step back. "I got a life now. I got a daughter, see, and a little bit of land. You can't ... you can't do this to me, don't you understand?"

  Miles moved forward slowly until he was in the doorway. He said, "Stay calm, Gandy. Don't go doing anything foolish. Think of Clemmy."

  And that was the wrong thing to say.

  "But I am thinking of Clemmy! That's exactly what I'm doing! You can't do this to me!"

  He charged at the lawman.

  Miles sidestepped to the right, making sure his gun hand was free, and took the brunt of Gandy's weight against his hip and left leg. Using Gandy's momentum against him, he grabbed the back of Gandy's collar and propelled him out the door.

  Gandy stumbled over the porch, went down on the steps, but was up again immediately. Miles stepped out after him, taking his time.

  Gandy leapt onto the porch, swung wild at Miles' head. Miles easily sidestepped again, grabbed Gandy's wrist and twisted.

  Gandy went to his knees, choking back a cry of pain.

  "Stop it," Miles said. "This won't do you any good, Gandy."

  He held the wrist, and Gandy looked up at him, his eyes pleading. From the house, the girl was yelling, "Daddy! Daddy, are you okay?"

  Gandy managed, "It's fine, girl, stay in your room like I told you!" His eyes never left Miles'.

  He helped Gandy to his feet, turned him around and pulled a short length of rope from his pocket to secure him. Pushing Gandy lightly up against the wall, h
e said, "Who can look after your girl, Gandy?"

  Gandy didn't answer, and Miles said, "I'm not going to just leave her here, all right? Is there someone in town who can look after her? How about the girl who works at the restaurant?"

  Gandy glanced back at him over his shoulder. "Janet? How do you know about Janet?"

  "I don't know about Janet. I just ate there, is all. But she seemed pretty fond of you. Will she look after your daughter?"

  Gandy sighed, faced the wall again. He nodded weakly.

  Miles tied Gandy's wrists, turned him around. He asked, "You want a smoke or anything?" and Gandy shook his head.

  Miles looked at his prisoner, but his prisoner wouldn't meet his gaze. They stood that way for a moment, until Miles finally said, "Okay, Gandy. Call your girl out, and we'll ride back to town. We'll use those two mules you have over there."

  Gandy raised his eyes, and Miles saw tears in them. "I don't want her to see me like this. I don't want her thinking her Pa is some criminal."

  "I can't untie you. I'm sorry."

  "What do I have to do to convince you I'm innocent of the charges?"

  "Nothing. I'm trying to tell you, Gandy, that I'm not the one you have to convince of anything. You're going to stand trial. You'll have an attorney, and if you're innocent you'll be set free. It's as simple as that."

  "And if I'm found guilty?"

  Miles shook his head. "This is pointless speculation."

  "What happens, Marshal? What happens if they decide I'm guilty?"

  "Prison, Gandy."

  "Or worse. They could hang me."

  "That's possible."

  Gandy's small mouth opened and closed a couple times, as if trying to form words before they were ready. He gave up and hung his head. "Clemmy," he said. "Come on, girl. We're going into town with the Marshal."

  The girl appeared in the doorway. The eyes that looked up at Miles were scared and nervous. Miles forced an easy grin on his face, said, "Hello, Clemmy. My name's Gideon. You feel like a ride today? Your father and I are—"