Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles

by Edward A. Grainger

  ADVENTURES OF CASH LARAMIE AND GIDEON MILES

  Edward A. Grainger

  Foreword by

  Chris F. Holm

  Cover by

  John Hornor Jacobs

  Copyright © 2010-2011 by Edward A. Grainger

  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 author, 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.

  Miles to Go, first appeared in the BEAT to a PULP webzine, May, 2010.

  Kid Eddie, first appeared in The Western Online, September 2010.

  The Wind Scorpion, first appeared in BEAT to a PULP: Round One, October 2010.

  Melanie, first appeared in The Tainted Archive, January 2011.

  The Outlaw Marshal, first appeared in The Flash Fiction Offensive, April 2011.

  Image credits:

  Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles, illustrated by William Ervin.

  Melanie, photo from iStock.com, sketch effect by dMix.

  Colt Revolver, photo and sketch effect by dMix.

  PO Box 173

  Freeville, New York, 13068

  This book is dedicated to two very precious ladies in my life. Denise who is the most complete partner in every way I could hope to ask for and Ava Elyse who came into our lives in 2011 and is now the sparkle in our hearts. I love you, both.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Credits

  Foreword

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  ADVENTURES

  The Wind Scorpion

  Kid Eddie

  Miles to Go

  The Bone Orchard Mystery

  Melanie

  Under the Sun (with Sandra Seamans)

  The Outlaw Marshal

  FOREWORD

  I have a confession to make: I've never been a fan of Westerns. Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against them—it's just they never grabbed me in the way a good detective story grabs me. They always seemed to me as dusty as the desert towns in which they're set, more museum pieces than living, breathing stories. Relics of a bygone era.

  My Papa would've shaken his head to hear me say that. He was a cop, and a consummate storyteller; it was from him I inherited my penchant for writing and reading crime fiction. But Papa didn't discriminate between a good cop story and a good Western. To him, it didn't matter if Eastwood was wearing a poncho and a wide-brimmed hat or a suit and a badge—there the clicker stopped either way. I always figured it was generational—for Papa, crime and Westerns were of a piece, but as a little kid whose feet couldn't reach the floor as I sat on the couch beside him, the Wild West seemed as far away as Roman times, and as textbook-dull as well.

  So it was with trepidation I read the first Cash and Miles story David Cranmer sent my way. "Miles to Go," this was. It's not that I doubted David's talents as a writer—I simply felt that Westerns were (caps warranted) Not My Thing. I figured I'd give the story a skim, find a sentence or two I thought worth highlighting, and pass along a "Job well done."

  Instead, I found myself riveted. Cash and Miles proved to be nuanced, interesting characters, men whose honor and decency divorced them from the petty prejudices of their time, but whose backgrounds placed them in the centers of said prejudices nonetheless. What's more, the deft hand with which David dealt with matters of class and race made the story...well, not modern, exactly, so much as timeless and universal, and certainly a far cry from the museum pieces of my youth. And to cap it all off, the story itself was breakneck: a thrilling manhunt, a tale of battle-hardened friendship, all draped effortlessly in Western trappings. For me, the story struck the perfect balance between crime and Western fiction, and in so doing, provided me an entry point to a vibrant genre that had heretofore proved inaccessible to me.

  Since that day, I've eagerly consumed every scrap of Cash and Miles I could get my eyeballs on (occasionally, I confess, nudging David to write another when I'd exhausted the existing supply). And I've started delving into the Westerns of David's fellow fence-straddlers—guys like James Reasoner and Elmore Leonard, who, like my Papa, didn't see much of a division between cowboys and crime at all.

  I don't mind telling you that, in this instance, being proved wrong doesn't suck a bit.

  'Course, if my Papa were still around, he'd be sure to say I told you so.

  Chris F. Holm

  March, 2011

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I am very fortunate to have fellow writers and friends who look at my early scratches and offer helpful, straightforward advice. Chris F. Holm, Scott D. Parker, Sandra Seamans, Matthew P. Mayo, Chuck Tyrell, Nik Morton, Chris La Tray, Ron Scheer. I am grateful to all.

  Special thanks to the gifted John Hornor Jacobs and his terrific cover art for Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles. Mr. Jacobs can be found at http://bastardizedversion.blogspot.com/.

  The west I write about is profoundly influenced by the operatic Sergio Leone/Clint Eastwood Spaghetti Westerns of the 1960s and earlier films like William A. Wellman's The Ox-Bow Incident (1943) and Henry King's The Gunfighter (1950). To their greatness I continue to strive as a writer and I hope with these seven humble stories, on occasion, I've come close to hitting the standard they set.

  THE WIND SCORPION

  Each blistered step unleashed a flash of razor pain that snaked up his spine and bit into his throbbing head. Staggering ahead, the trail twisted for miles. Any hope of crossing paths with a helping hand vanished with the arrival of the afternoon sun's fiery breath. Water, he needed water.

  Straying from the security of the well-worn trail was surely a death sentence. There was no way of knowing how far he'd have to wander to find a stream, and in his weakened condition, without a gun, he was no match for the treacherous Wyoming terrain and wildlife. He knew he must stick to the road that eventually would lead to Vermillion, and hopefully, the men who left him to die.

  He had been escorting a prisoner, Black Jack Larson, to Cheyenne to stand trial for the murder of a circuit judge when he was jumped and beaten by Larson's men. As he drifted in and out of consciousness they plotted over him.

  "Shouldn't we kill him?" grumbled the man with a long scar entrenched down his face.

  "Killing a lawman only brings more," Black Jack replied. "Don't matter no how, the marshal will be cold as a wagon tire soon enough. Hell, we'll even show a little mercy." Dropping an open canteen at the marshal's feet, the water gushed out onto the ground. The trio laughed as they saddled up and rode away.

  When he'd come around, the morning sun was cresting over the mountains. His horse and provisions were gone save his bona fides and the near-empty canteen. He struggled to sit up, then stood on wobbly legs before falling down. Worming his way over, inch by inch, to a young ash tree, he pulled himself up, holding onto a low branch, allowing the blood to circulate and return some strength to his legs. He broke off a waist-high piece of the tree limb and used it as a crutch to hobble over to the canteen. Out of necessity, he swallowed the mouthful of water in the first hours.

  His now-parched tongue rivaled the agony in his feet.

  The reverberation of a distant gallop caught his ear. He looked up to see the distorted likeness of a mounted horse coming over the rise, riding the air of pulsating heat. He spun around, eyed the sky, and collapsed.

  ***

  His eyes fixed on the room. He was on a straw bed in a small cabin, a kitchen to his left, table and a couple of chairs straight ahead all cl
ustered together. An unmade bedroll was near his up against the wall. Stinging enveloped his body, a pounding shook his legs. He sat up, pain knifing upward, searching for an escape route and finding it in his guttural scream. He stood anyway, cursing as his feet touched the floor, and limped to the other side of the room. It was then he realized he was naked.

  Peering through the window over the washbasin, his eyes swept the scrub and rock-dotted land stretching out into the remoteness. In the yard, an Appaloosa tethered to a hitching post near a rickety barn contently chewed oats from a bucket.

  "Oh, you shouldn't be up."

  He jerked around to find a woman carrying a bucket of water through the open doorway. Her long dark hair danced on her shoulders and across her blushing cheeks. She placed the bucket on the table and smoothed the loose strands with wet fingers.

  Turning her back to him, she closed the door.

  "If the marshal would get into bed, I can tend to those blisters and make some food."

  "Yes Ma'am. Pardon me," he rasped as he ambled to the bed covering himself with the thick wool blanket. "Where am I?"

  She peeked from behind a hand covering her eyes and, seeing it was safe, turned to him. "About ten miles from Vermillion."

  "If you would, Marshal Laramie, lie back and stretch your feet over the edge. I will see they get some proper treatment."

  "You know my name."

  "Your badge and credentials were with you when Doc Bojay came upon you on DeRuyter Road." She slid a small wooden footstool to the end of the bed, scooped a light-yellow cream from a jar, and spread it over her hands. "I must say, Cash Laramie is a remarkable name."

  "I hear that quite a bit." His leg recoiled as she began rubbing the cool cream over one swollen foot. "What's that?"

  "A salve Doc left when he dropped you here. He was on his way to deliver Mrs. Jensen's baby. He said he'll check on you—on his way back through." She dabbed a small amount on his other foot. He studied her closely, noting the kindness in her face gave her plain looks a quality that would grow on a man.

  "And your name is?"

  "Mary Katherine Alton."

  "You live alone?"

  "Yes." She finished her work and looked up, "There, that should start working in a bit. I bet you're hungry. Let me get you some food."

  Cash admired how Mary applied the salve and wondered how many times before she had done that. "How long have I been here?"

  "Since yesterday afternoon." She stacked several pieces of wood in the stove and placed a pot on top. "Doc recommended a light meal to start you off. How does a little soup and bread sound?"

  His stomach lurched at the thought of food. "That will be fine." He looked around the room, his eyes coming to rest on the side wall where twenty or more colorful butterflies of all sizes were pinned to a board and framed in glass.

  Mary turned to find Cash looking at her collection, "I'm an amateur entomologist. I like to study insects and other invertebrates." She whirled back around to stir the soup, the cabin filling with a savory aroma. "My husband thought my collecting creepy and always threatened to throw it out."

  "Husband? I thought you lived alone?" Cash asked, looking for boots in the corner, a tobacco pipe on the table or any other evidence that a man lived there but saw none.

  "Oh, he left with another woman. The farm wasn't working out and he started spending more money on firewater and Calico Queens than paying our bills."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "Don't be. He was no good." Her voice trailed off. She took a bowl from the cupboard and ladled some soup into it. Cash sat up in bed, and slowly slurped the broth.

  Seeing the topic of her husband pained her, he changed the subject. "Where did the interest in collecting come from?"

  "My father. Mother died giving birth so it was just me and him. Being poor, we couldn't afford much, but he saved up money for this," she grabbed a thick leather-bound book from the table. "Father and I would spend evenings studying the illustrations and check off the bugs we discovered. It was such a wonderful present because it was something we could do together." She lowered her head. "It broke his heart when I married and moved away. He died a few years later—I wasn't even there for him. And I left him for what? A no good two-timing mudsill." Her voice trembled slightly as she stood and walked to the window.

  They sat in silence for a few moments while Cash spooned more soup into his mouth. Plucking up the nerve, Mary finally asked, "So who were the men that managed to dry gulch you?"

  "I was escorting a prisoner named Larson to—"

  "Black Jack Larson?"

  The spoon stopped halfway between Cash's mouth and the bowl. "You know him?"

  "He's a hero in these parts, our Jesse James you might say."

  "Black Jack is a thief and a murderer who's due to stand trial," Cash said.

  "Well, he gives a lot of money to the orphanage and poor in this area and that's more than I can say for that corrupt administration running the land."

  "I see." Cash tore off a chunk of bread to dip in his soup. He was well aware how common folks felt about the thieves in Washington.

  "How'd Larson get the drop on you?"

  "He didn't, but his accomplices did. Jumped me from behind. One was a tenderfoot in a green bowler that I didn't get a good look at and the other polecat had a deep scar down the center of his face."

  "A scar-faced man—you travel in some fascinating circles, Marshal Laramie." Mary walked over to a shelf removing a handcrafted wooden box with a glass panel on one side and a tin plate with countless tiny holes covering the top.

  "Marshal, have you ever heard of the wind scorpion?"

  "Please call me Cash." He finished off the soup and set the bowl and spoon aside. "I've heard of 'em but never seen one."

  "It's a Solpugid, also called a sun spider, but it's neither a scorpion nor a spider, more of a cousin to both. It lives in arid habitats. We occasionally find them wandering around southern Wyoming." She set the box on the floor beside the bed and lifted the tin top, poking a twig into the makeshift house. "They are nocturnal, fierce hunters with voracious appetites and incredibly strong mandibles. And they are extremely fast."

  Cash looked down at the black-and-tan creature with its slender body and multiple long legs. Beady eyes centered on the top of a large head stared straight up at him and large pincher-like jaws opened and closed tightly on the twig that Mary had thrust in front of it. "Is it venomous?"

  "Not a drop. They might look malicious but they're really harmless to people and tend to shy away. But when confronted, they can become aggressive. Their bite can penetrate the flesh and be quite painful—" she paused and her gaze drifted to the window. "Take my word, you don't want one to retaliate."

  Cash had the feeling Mary had ceased talking about the wind scorpion. She replaced the box on the shelf. "Sorry, don't mean to get all strange on you—"

  Cash waved a hand. "No need to apologize. I appreciate your goodwill in nursing me back to health. If I may ask another favor of you, I need to procure a horse and gun. It would be much appreciated and I will gladly pay you."

  "You're welcome to borrow Dusty but he's my only mount and I would be lost without 'em. There's a Black-Eyed Susan in the top drawer of the bureau."

  "I can't ride off with your only horse—"

  "Please, Marshal, I insist. I know you're good for it should anything happen to Dusty."

  "Much obliged," Cash said and looked down at his feet. "I'll let these stubs rest the night and head out in the morning."

  "But you'll miss Doc Bojay," Mary said.

  "It'll have to be. I'm fine other than the soreness. The doc can't do much more for me. Tell him I appreciate the help and see that he gets this for his doctoring and the ointment." Cash handed Mary two bits from a notch on the inside of his belt. "Once I get to town, I'll send someone from the livery stable back with Dusty in tow."

  ***

  He awoke to her sliding into bed with him, the breaking morning lig
ht shining through the windowpanes and stretching across the plank floorboards.

  "I've been so alone," she whispered. Cash's startle gave way to pleasure. He forgot his lameness in the vigorous exercise that followed.

  After, he stretched for the chair. Sensing what he wanted, Mary slithered over his struggling hands and reached for the cheroot in his vest pocket. She got up and grabbed a lucifer from the cabinet above the stove, lit the cigar, and crawled back into the warmth they had created.

  "Do you really have to leave so soon?" she asked, toying with the arrowhead that was laced around his neck.

  "Afraid so." He blew a smoke ring that drifted aimlessly in the still air, fragrant with her scent. "I know it's hard for people to understand but Black Jack Larson is a murdering thief and justice needs to be served for the sake of the men he's killed. It may take longer to track him down now—but I will."

  She sat on the edge of the bed and he admired her firm body.

  "Something tells me you will." She paused and then leaned into him. "Was it...I mean, was I good...it's been so long." She reached for his cigar and took a puff. "You probably have some mighty beautiful women in Cheyenne."

  "You were more than fine—you were incredible."

  She exhaled and handed the cigar back to him. "That's nice of you to say." She smiled and traced a fingertip along his jaw line. "Larson as dangerous as you say?"

  "Without a doubt."

  "When you arrive in Vermillion, you may want to seek out Etta Price."

  Cash wanted to ask who this Miss Etta Price was but decided against it.

  They stayed in bed a few minutes more before he got up to wash and dress and then went out to saddle Dusty.

  He walked back inside to say his goodbyes and found Mary feeding live crickets to the wind scorpion. "Watch out for his bite," Cash warned.