"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Parley demanded as the mob reached the store.
"What does it look like I'm doing," Cash replied calmly. "I'm gathering some supplies and getting ready to hit the trail—just like you said I should do."
"What about them?" Parley said, jabbing a finger in the direction of Faye and Little Red.
"These two ladies, you mean?"
"They ain't ladies, they're whores—our whores. You look like you're fixin' to take them with you. Is that your intent?"
"As it turns out," Cash said, still holding his voice calm and level, "these ladies are headed down off this mountain, same as me. So yeah, we'll be traveling together for a spell."
Parley shook his head fiercely. "Oh no. No, that ain't gonna happen, mister. You burned away our saloon and all our whiskey, you damn sure ain't gonna run off with our whores, too!"
"We might be whores," Faye spoke up, "but we ain't your whores, Parley. We ain't nobody's damn property! We're two human beings, free to go where we want—and where we want is somewhere the hell away from Silver Gulch and you don't have any right to stop us."
"You talk mighty big when you ain't layin' on your back with your heels in the air, moanin' for more and more pleasure from—"
"The only reason anybody'd moan with you on top of them, you mouse-dicked moron, would be from wanting you to hurry up and blow your drizzly whistle so's you could roll your fat ass off and be done."
Parley's eyes bulged and his face flushed to a deep purple. "I'm gonna remember you said that, whore, the next time I—"
"There ain't going to be no next time, Parley." Now Cash's voice turned as cold and hard as steel. At the same time he brandished his Winchester Yellowboy for all to see. "These women are riding out with me and my prisoner in a few minutes, and I'll shoot any man tries to stop us."
"We got you outnumbered ten to one, Marshal—more, if I call out the rest of my men," Parley rasped. "You willing to try and buck odds like that over a couple of used-up whores?"
"You and your boys are a bunch of rock busters. I'm a professional when it comes to gun work," Cash told him. "Anybody anxious to start collecting lead instead of silver ... go ahead and make your play."
The pack of miners milled uncertainly, their feet making sucking-squishing noises in the trampled mud of the street. Parley licked his lips, his eyes glaring holes into Cash and the two women.
But not a single man edged forward.
After a tense minute, Cash nodded. "You're showing good sense ... Now go on about your business, we'll do the same. And we'll be gone from this shithole you call a town before you know it."
* * *
Crafty Faye, in spite of her meager earnings at Oscar's saloon, had nevertheless managed to squirrel away part of her earnings. What's more, she'd had the presence of mind to grab her stash of money before making her leap from the flames into Cash's waiting arms. It was from this stash that she'd been able to purchase some warm clothing for her and Little Red to wear on the trip down out of the mountains. She'd had enough left over to also haggle Abe Bushberry out of a pair of horses for the trip. Said haggling had included a brief private session with the livery man behind the closed blanket flap of his tent and whatever transpired therein had been enough to seal the deal.
It was just over an hour after the confrontation with Parley and the other miners when the quartet of Cash, Faye, Little Red, and the handcuffed prisoner, Lobo Ames, rode out of Silver Gulch. The sun had climbed higher in the morning sky but at the same time another ominous cloud cover was building off to the west and ahead of it came a low, moaning wind that carried the threat of a storm.
"How bad do you think it will be?" Faye asked, riding beside Cash and eyeing the western clouds.
"It's an early storm," Cash answered. "Probably hit hard and fast, but hopefully be over fairly quick. It may bog us down a bit, but it won't stop us for too long I don't think. We've got provisions and it shouldn't be hard to find a crevice or cave for shelter if it comes to that. We'll be okay."
Faye studied him. "You're a very competent man. You take everything in stride. Makes a body feel safe, being with you."
"You ain't exactly short on gumption yourself," Cash pointed out, "way you stood up to Parley back there was ... well, kinda admirable."
The blonde woman's eyebrows lifted. "I don't usually get compliments from men ... Unless it's, you know, the bedroom kind."
"There's more to you than that, Faye."
"Maybe so. But all I had to use against Parley was words. It was you and your guns that got us out of there."
"Standing up to him with only words and not having a gun is the kind of gumption I'm talking about." Cashed grinned wryly. "Plus, what else was it but your way with words that made me reconsider letting you ride along when I left Silver Gulch? ... Don't sell yourself short, and don't try to convince me that tongue of yours don't amount to a fearsome weapon in its own way."
* * *
"I need three volunteers—three hearty lads who can set a saddle over rough country and who know how to handle a gun." With his jaw set firmly and his eyes glinting with determination, Parley made this request to the two dozen men gathered before him on the edge of Silver Gulch's lone street.
Rough, unshaven faces glared back at him, eyes narrowed in equal parts agitation and caution.
"You intendin' to shoot that marshal, Parley?" someone asked.
"I intend to bring back what's rightfully ours—by whatever means necessary."
The boldness of the statement and the confidence in his tone stoked a rumbling of assent.
"That sumbitch had no right to take our women like he done!"
"We let him off too easy when it came to killin' Oscar and burnin' up all our whiskey—we should have done for him last night when he was stripped of his guns for fightin' that fire."
Parley shook his head. "We ain't murderers, don't nobody go thinking that. Last night he hadn't wronged us, except by accident. And that was as much dumb fat Oscar's fault as any. But this morning—when we were unarmed and unprepared—he went and purposely set himself against us. He by-damn robbed from us. That star on his shirt don't give him the right to do that, and we don't have to stand by for any such!"
"Damn right we don't!"
"You tell it, Parley!"
Parley held up his hands. "Okay. I'm hearin' a lot of jawin' and agreein' ... But I ain't heard nobody speak up yet for pitchin' in with me to go after that damn Cash Laramie. We're wastin' time standin' here flappin' our gums over it. Who's gonna ride with me?"
A tall, rawboned man known as Swede Dixon stepped forward. "I'll side you, Parley." He jabbed a thumb skyward. "But if that storm hits, how are we gonna track that bunch? They'll have a three, four hour head start on us by the time we can head out."
"We don't have to track 'em," Parley answered. "Laramie done told Bushberry he intended to head out through Split Rock Pass. Means we can ride straight and fast and maybe even cut him off. Four hard men puttin' the spurs and leathers to their mounts can sure as hell cover ground quicker than an outfit slowed by soft women and a man in chains."
Another miner stepped forward, a shaggy gent with one marred eye and a mouth curled in a perpetual sneer. "Count me in, Parley. Me and my cousin Merl, too. There's your four."
Parley frowned. "You sure about that, Rostler?"
"Said so, didn't I?" A second man—a taller, younger version of Rostler, but without the bad eye or the sneer—stepped up beside his cousin. "Me and Merl fought together in the war," Hank Rostler went on. "We sure-hell did our share of hard ridin' and gun totin'. And we ain't the least bit shy about goin' up against no lousy starpacker, neither."
Parley seemed to hesitate. His gaze searched other faces in the crowd, as if hoping some alternate volunteer would sing out. But none did. At last he gave an unenthusiastic nod. "I guess that settles it, then. Let's get our gear together and commence to ridin'."
* * *
Some minutes later,
once he and his cousin were alone in the tent they shared, breaking out their riding gear and packing a possibles sack, Merl Crane said, "I never been one to question you much, Cousin Hank, but I'm havin' a little trouble understandin' why you spoke up back there to volunteer for this ride-out with Parley. Just yesterday you was sayin' how it was time for us to put this whole sorry minin' business behind us and strike out for something different. If we were gonna be ridin' out, I figured we'd be ridin' out for good—not just to haul back a coupla whores."
"What you oughta remember, Merl," Hank Rostler replied, his usual sneer turning into a sly smile, "is that the reason you got in the habit of not questionin' me is because I'm always thinkin' two or three steps ahead and you can never keep up. That's what I'm doin' now ... You see, just because we're ridin' out after them whores don't necessarily mean we're gonna be haulin' 'em back—leastways not to here."
Merl looked all the more confused.
"Stop and think," Rostler went on. "If we was to simply chuck everything and just ride away from Silver Gulch, where would we go and what would we take up? We'd end up down in the flats somewhere with no money and no prospects ... But if we was to show up down there with a couple of sporting girls we could shop around for a cut of the money they'd make on their backs, then that would be a whole different matter, wouldn't it?"
Merl's eyebrows went up. "Say now ... you mean they'd be workin' for us?"
"Don't see why not. Girls like them have got to have somebody lookin' out for 'em, linin' up customers, keepin' 'em safe in case somebody tries to get too rough ... See what I'm sayin'? We could be the ones doin' that. Peddlin' those girls around and makin' a hell of a lot more money from it—for them and us both—than ever's gonna be made around here." The sly smile widened. "Ain't no arguin' that both Faye and Little Red have still got some looks to 'em. Won't be hard to find interested men. Plus we would be gettin' all the free pokes we could hardly stand."
Now Merl was smiling. "Boy, I got me a taste of Little Red only a time or two ... Never could afford any more. But havin' her, you know, regular-like, that'd be mighty fine."
"And we'd be livin' a life of leisure. The girls do the work, we rake in a piece of the profits. Hell, we might even build ourselves a whole string of girls and then really start makin' some money. Wouldn't that beat the shit out of bustin' rocks and diggin' in the cold ground all day long for nothin' but raw fingers and a sore back?"
"Boy, it sure would, Cousin Hank. It sure would." Merl's smile faltered. "But what about Parley and the Swede? What are they gonna say about us makin' off with those girls?"
Rostler's eyes narrowed. "We need Parley and the Swede to help us get the girls away from that damn marshal. After that, we don't need 'em no more and I don't give a damn what they say. The day you and me can't shade a couple rock busters like them ... Well, I don't see that day happenin'."
* * *
The black stranger arrived in Silver Gulch less than an hour after Parley and the others had departed. He rode tall in the saddle, broad shoulders made even broader by a thick bearskin coat. On his head sat a short-crowned beaver hat with a feather in its band. A gold hoop earring dangled from his left ear and when he smiled, which was seldom, a gold tooth shown in front. He reined up at the corral fence where Abe Bushberry was just finishing feeding some stock.
The liveryman walked over to the fence, his customary smile somewhat guarded. "Mornin', mister," he greeted.
"Back at ya," said the stranger. As he spoke, his gaze swept the shacks and tents of the town. "Looks like ya'll have had a hard time of it here," he observed. His eyes came to rest on the still-smoldering remains of the saloon. "And some recent trouble."
"Afraid you ain't wrong, mister," Bushberry allowed. "You lookin' to put up your mount for a spell?"
The rider seemed to consider the question. "If I was to do that," he said, "what would I do with myself in this scrap heap of a town you got here?"
"Well ... I don't know," Bushberry said edgily. "I guess that would depend on what business brought you here."
"The business what brought me here," came the response, "is the same business what takes me most places I go ... My name's Cole Bouchet, I'm a bounty hunter. I track down the scum of the earth and remove 'em from decent society."
"You lookin' for somebody in Silver Gulch?"
"Don't know no other reason'd bring me to this sorry place."
Even before he asked the next question, Bushberry had an uneasy feeling he knew what the answer was going to be. "Got a name for this fella you're after?"
Bouchet nodded. "Scar-faced piece of trash calls hisself Lobo Ames."
Bushberry licked his lips. "Yeah, I guess I know that name. Unfortunately for you, he's been and gone. Unfortunately for us, he was here long enough to be the roundabout cause of that." He gestured toward the burnt-out pile that had once been the saloon.
"How long ago he head out?"
"Not soon enough," Bushberry spat.
"Give me something a little closer than that," said Bouchet.
"Early this morning. Not long after sunup." Bushberry eyed the bounty hunter. "Something more you oughta know—he didn't go out of here alone. He went in the custody of a deputy U.S. Marshal out of Cheyenne. Fella named Cash Laramie."
Bouchet flashed his gold tooth in a thin, brief smile. "Well now."
"You know Marshal Laramie?" asked Bushberry.
"Know of him," Bouchet answered. "Supposed to be a no-nonsense, double-tough lawman."
"From what I saw, that sounds like an accurate description."
"Why didn't I meet Laramie and his prisoner anywhere on the trail up here?"
Bushberry shook his head. "That I can't tell you ... What trail were you on?"
"Came up outta Kelsey Canyon."
"Maybe he took another route. There's other passes."
Bouchet frowned. "With a storm comin' on, that don't seem smart. Kelsey Canyon will stay open for quite awhile. The nearest other pass is Split Rock and that'll choke with the first big snow."
"Look, mister," said Bushberry, starting to feel a little pinned down, "I can't tell you what was in that marshal's head. All I know is that he lit outta here with Lobo Ames and before that, when he first hit town, he mentioned comin' up through Split Rock Pass." The instant Bushberry let that slip, he regretted it. He had an uneasy feeling about Bouchet and suspected it was probably best to tell him as little as possible. He tried to cover what he'd already said by adding, "Reckon you could take that to mean he might head back the same way ... but I can't say for sure."
Bouchet was eyeing the liveryman closely. "Okay then ... Who lit out after them?"
Bushberry fidgeted on the other side of the corral fence. "I ain't sure what you mean."
"A ways back I caught sight of four men ridin' down from the direction of this town ... I saw them, they didn't see me. None of 'em was Ames, none of 'em was wearing a marshal's star. Still, they looked to be in a powerful hurry about something. You sayin' they had nothing to do with the marshal and his prisoner ridin' out earlier?"
Bushberry was determined not to let any more unintended information slip out. "Look at this place, mister," he said, meeting Bouchet's probing gaze and then jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "Silver Gulch is a dyin' town. With the saloon burned down and winter comin' on, it's dyin' even faster. We got miners bailin' out every day—how the hell am I supposed to keep track of all of 'em?"
–SIX–
It was the middle of the afternoon when the first flakes began coming down. They started out small, but the wind that had been increasing all through the day whipped them against horses and riders with stinging sharpness.
Cash was setting a steady, distance-eating pace, wanting to cover as much ground as possible before either darkness or the storm forced them to make camp. Like he'd told Faye, he was hoping this early winter blow would pass quickly and not leave too much of a snow accumulation. But he couldn't count on that. So now, with it beginning, he decided the
best thing was to start watching for a good encampment spot rather than wait until the last minute and have to settle for whatever was at hand. The storm was going to hurry evening's darkness anyway, so the loss of a couple hours' travel wouldn't be critical. Best to get hunkered in somewhere safe and secure for riding out this blast from Mother Nature, however long it lasted.
By the time Cash spotted a suitable place, the sky had grown darker, the snow was coming down harder, and the temperature was dropping fast. Cash led them in under a large rock outcropping with a scooped-out underside high enough and wide enough for horses and people to fit comfortably. A tumble of boulders blocked the wind and snow on one side and a thick stand of fir trees served the same purpose on the other. In amongst the trees there was even some stubbly grass for the horses to graze on.
One of the first things Cash did was fasten one end of Ames' handcuffs to a length of thick, twisted tree root he found bulging out of a seam in the rock wall at the back of the shallow cavern. This gave the prisoner a reasonable amount of mobility yet kept him secured in place and out of the way.
"You gonna keep me chained like a dog the whole time?" Ames wailed.
"That's the general idea," Cash told him. "Though it ain't an especially kind comparison to any dog I ever met."
"I'll freeze to death against this cold rock."
"You don't like the accommodations in here, how about I stake you out with the horses? You was wantin' a belly-warmer before—maybe you could friendly-up with one of them mares."
"You're a real hard case, ain't you?"
"Be a good idea for you to remember it."
Ames' eyes narrowed. "Maybe you need to remember that I ain't gonna be in these chains forever ... The day I get free from them, that's the day you and me are gonna have some real serious score settlin' to do."
Manhunter's Mountain (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series Book 4) Page 3