Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series)

by Edward A. Grainger

  "Like a woman scorned," Cash finished.

  "Exactly." She handed over a shoulder-strapped canvas bag. "Here's some food for the trip and the rest of the salve for your feet. Be careful, Marshal With the Funny Name," she said kissing his lips.

  "Thanks, and you take care, Lady With the Curious Hobby."

  * * *

  Cash stared down onto the backwater town of Vermillion. He mapped out the lay of the land, locating the livery on the opposite end from the hotel. He knew if Larson was there, he'd likely be at the hotel's saloon enjoying the bug juice and women.

  Cash reached in both boots, pulling out four eagle coins he kept for emergencies. He guided Dusty off the hill and behind the livery where he dismounted to walk the steed around.

  A rail-thin boy was near the doorway shoeing a horse.

  "Son, do you know where the Alton spread is?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Cash pressed a coin into the kid's palm. "Drop this horse there and I'll need another ride before I leave town tonight."

  "We have some of the finest horses and for a real good deal."

  After settling on a Morgan, Cash asked, "Where can I find Etta Price?"

  A broad grin crossed the youth's face. "You can find her working at the Conrad Straight Hotel and Saloon yonder." He pointed to the only brick and wood building at the end of the street.

  "A whore?"

  "And a mighty fine one."

  "How would a youngster like you know?"

  "Ms. Etta Price doesn't mind your age—as long as you pay the price," he said enjoying the play on her name.

  * * *

  Etta Price was easy to pick out. Not only was she the one blonde with the biggest bodice in the bunch, she was also the loudest.

  Cash moseyed up to the bar and ordered a whisky. He kept a watchful eye on Etta and noticed that the other saloon girls periodically went upstairs with a cowpoke but she didn't. He summoned the madam.

  "How much for the blonde whore?" Cash asked.

  She let out a sharp cackle. "Mister, you're barking up the wrong tree. Etta's man, Ridley Joe, is in town and ain't nobody getting a piece till he rides out."

  He slid a gold eagle along the counter and stopped it in front of her. "Just a drink and we can let the lady decide."

  She took the coin, dropping it down her ample bosom. "Mister, she ain't no lady. But, what the hell, it's your funeral."

  The madam sauntered over to Etta who scrutinized Cash. The blonde behemoth smiled and then strutted over to stand next to Cash, leaning against the bar's edge. "So I hear you be dropping gold coins. Look, Ridley Joe will be heading out soon and we can meet up. Lorelei or Misty can entertain you until then."

  Just as she turned to walk away, Cash laid two more eagles on the bar. "I just stopped by the bank before heading over here and I sure wish to part with these. I can be pretty fast with the right motivation."

  She swiped the sparkling ten dollar coins and glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner.

  "Stud, for that much, I'm willing to take a beating. But Ridley Joe, he'll kill you for sure." With a nod of the head, she pointed Cash in the direction of the stairs, "C'mon."

  He followed her as she sidled her way through the drunken patrons and then up the stairs. She stopped at the first door down the narrow hall and opened it, leading him inside.

  "Ok mister you have five minutes—" Cash covered her mouth with the palm of his hand.

  "I'm not going to hurt you but we are going to sit nice and quiet until Black Jack shows up." She stood wide-eyed. "You understand?"

  She nodded her head. He let go and she screamed. He clamped his hand back in place and shoved her onto the bed. He yanked a handkerchief from his back pocket and wrapped it over her mouth. Finding a ball of twine on the dresser, he secured her hands and feet. "Alright, I have another idea. Let's take off these clothes."

  * * *

  Ridley Joe stormed into the bar, loped up the stairs, and into the room. A wide, toothy grin crossed his face. "Well, lookee here, what a pleasant surpr—" The lines in his forehead quickly creased. "Who hogtied you?"

  Cash closed the door, clipped the back of Ridley Joe's head with the butt of the pistol, and punched the scar-face with his left fist as Ridley spun to fight. The owlhoot slumped to the floor on his ass, doubling over, his head propped up by the foot of the bed.

  "You can have the bed-faggot, I'm through with her. I don't want any trouble." Blood trickled down as Ridley dropped his head, rubbing it like a dog licking its wounds. Etta's face scrunched up and tears formed.

  "Look at me," Cash thundered at Ridley Joe who lifted his battered head, bumping it against the bed.

  Recognition dawned on the man's face. "Why you're that marshal—"

  "That you left for dead," Cash finished. "Now where's Black Jack Larson and that other son of a bitch?"

  The answer rang out in a blast of shotgun fire that ripped apart the door leaving a wide gash. Cash dove to the floor. A second slug embedded itself in the headboard beside Etta as she screamed into the gag. Ridley rolled to his left, yanking his gun free, but Cash cleared leather first and opened a dark hole in the rapscallion's forehead. A third blast came through the shattered door and then a stream of small fire joined in the dance. Cash was safely to the side but he didn't want to explain to his boss how a whore he had tied to the bed had been killed. He laid out his own slug-infested volley and quickly untied Etta's hands and dragged her sideways off the bed.

  His shots halted the exchange of lead and he could hear footsteps retreating down the stairs. He stood to leave when Etta pulled the handkerchief from her mouth.

  "Go through the window here and you can reach them from the landing before they get to their horses."

  "Why help me now?" Cash said.

  She spit at Ridley Joe, "He would have given me up when you didn't." She smirked. "Besides, you paid for the time."

  "Much obliged." He crawled out the window and onto the slanted roof. When Black Jack and his crony appeared fleeing the building, Cash whistled. They turned and raised their guns. His first shot hit the younger outlaw wielding a small pistol center frame and whose own bullet went wild. Cash threw himself onto the roof as Black Jack managed to get off a round from his shotgun. The buckshot shattered a hotel window.

  Cash aimed again and hit the desperado in the shoulder, spinning him around and dashing him to the ground. He lowered himself to the street and scanned the area for anyone who might decide to help Larson.

  A silhouette moved ahead of him.

  "Show yourself or I'll shoot," Cash snarled.

  "Don't shoot, don't shoot. It's Sheriff Trumbull." A thin, short man appeared with a silver star pinned to his chest. "I'm on your side, marshal. These scoundrels have been tearing up this town far too long."

  "Fine, then here's what you do. Grab my horse from the livery and find me a wagon to load up Black Jack and his men. There's a third lying upstairs in Etta's room."

  "Yes, sir, but watch your back because he has a lot of friends among the riffraff in town. The rest of us are tired of them getting a free ride."

  * * *

  By the time Sheriff Trumbull returned in short order with the Morgan hitched to a wagon, Etta had given a hand to stop the bleeding from Black Jack's bullet wound. The sheriff stood guard with a Spencer rifle while Cash loaded the two corpses in the back, tying Black Jack to the front seat. The townsfolk milled about but didn't seem all that upset that Black Jack had been corralled. Maybe he wasn't as well liked as his reputation suggested or perhaps he had forgotten to donate to the orphanage in a while.

  * * *

  Cash stopped by a stream to let the horses rest and drink. He opened the bag of food Mary Katherine had given him, offering some beef jerky to Black Jack.

  He reached in for some bread, grabbing a note that had been tucked underneath a round loaf. He read it quietly:

  Marshal Laramie,

  It was when you mentioned the scar running down your attacke
r's face that I realized it was my husband, Ridley Joe, and if Black Jack Larson allows someone like Joe to ride with him, then Larson, as you said, is definitely no good.

  The Wind Scorpion when pushed will strike back, and, likewise, a woman worth her salt will do the same. I know you will find them and end their run. Then I will be free again.

  Yours truly,

  Mary Katherine

  "Well, I'll be damned," Cash murmured.

  KID EDDIE

  The boy pressed his freckled nose against the federal building's window and was admonished with a shoofly gesture from the passing Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Devon Penn inside. Penn paused a beat to watch the button dart across the busy Cheyenne thoroughfare and then turned to his deputy sitting in the Windsor armchair on the far side of his desk.

  "Look at these posters and tell me what kind of animal commits crimes like these," Penn said.

  Cash Laramie took the wanted posters from Penn's hand and began leafing through the stack, reading aloud: "Edward Morash wanted in Abilene for setting fire to the Methodist Church after robbing its parishioners. His aliases include The Kid and Kid Eddie." Another read: "Wanted! Kid Eddie in Galveston for the rape and murder of Mrs. Clayte Johnson." Cash leafed through half a dozen more before settling on: "Wanted in Pleasance, Wyoming, for robbing stage coach, locking passengers inside and setting afire." Cash noted the minimal reward was a hefty $1,500. He went to hand the posters back.

  "No, Cash, I would like you to hold onto them." The robust Penn waddled behind his desk, sat down, eyeing the rugged six-foot marshal. "Smile all you want, but I'm telling you be careful."

  "Chief, the Kid is behind bars. It's just a matter of bringing him in. Why so concerned?"

  Penn leaned forward on his desk, shoulders slumping. "Kid Eddie is fast. Real fast. You can see the trail he's left. Thankfully, a bounty hunter named Randall caught him north of Vermillion."

  "Well, now that he's robbed a federal bank and crossed state lines the marshal service is interested and I'll bring him back to stand trial," Cash said.

  "Yes, but it's two days ride back from Vermillion and I want you to be careful. I'm telling you, I've met the Kid before and ..."

  "What is it, chief?"

  "Just, be careful. Keep those posters as a reminder and bring that dog back so we can put him down."

  * * *

  Cash had been in Vermillion the year before tracking a trio of dangerous owlhoots who ambushed him and left him for dead. He returned the favor by ventilating two and returning their ringleader to prison but he still cringed at the thought of his near-death experience as he rode into town.

  He nudged his pinto down the narrow main street to the building marked Sheriff Office and Jail. A shingle dangling in the morning breeze read, "Gary Ramey." Cash tied his horse to the hitching post, beat the trail dust from his shirt, and entered. A thin and watery-eyed, old man sat behind the desk.

  "Sheriff Ramey?"

  "Yes, can I help you?"

  Cash extended his hand. "Marshal Laramie from Cheyenne." The palm that greeted his was as feeble as the old stump pumping it.

  "Sheriff Trumbull moved on? I worked with him last year."

  "Nope, 'fraid didn't move on but gunned down three months back stopping a saloon fight. I was brung out of retirement to take over until the town hires a new peace officer."

  Cash was sorry to hear about Trumbull, who had aided him after his shootout with the hard cases.

  "What can I do ya fer, marshal?"

  "I'm here to pick up Eddie Morash."

  "Oh." He scrunched his face up which without the benefit of teeth had a prune like effect. "I'll be glad to be rid of 'im."

  "How come?"

  "Gives me the willies just looking at 'im."

  A perplexed look crossed Cash's face.

  "You'll see." He grabbed a set of keys on a nail behind him. "Kid Eddie is in the backroom. Follow me."

  He unlocked the door leading to the cells where one lone occupant sat in the first cage.

  He had blond hair, cut schoolboy short, with sharp blue eyes. He was skinny but proportionate to his height around five-foot-two inches tall. A wide smile broke free of the youthful face.

  "Mr. Ramey, is this the man taking me back to Cheyenne?"

  "Yeah, Kid, he is. This is Marshal Laramie"

  "Hello, sir." His hand extended up through the bars to the lawman who shook it.

  "Eddie," Cash said.

  "Eddie. Why I haven't heard that in a spell. Well, actually, that's not true, the bounty hunter who brought me in also called me by Eddie and he was ok too. He had a sawed-off Winchester. What kind of iron do you carry?" He peered closer. "Oh, a Colt. I guess most of you marshals carry Colts these days don't ya? I carry—or mean, I carried a—"

  "Kid, the marshal and I have some paperwork to fill out."

  "Oh, ok-ok Sheriff Ramey. Sure nice to meet you, Marshal Laramie."

  Cash nodded and stepped back through the door that Ramey closed before assuming his seat again.

  "See what I mean," Ramey said pulling a pen from his desk to fill out the prisoner release forms.

  "That boy is the most polite, respectful young man I've come across." The sheriff then placed Eddie's belongings on the desk which included a billfold, timepiece, and Navy Revolver.

  Cash snagged a cheroot from his pocket and lit it. The tobacco aroma filled the office as he sat across from Ramey signing his name. Finished, he pushed the paperwork back to Ramey and scooped Eddie's personal items off the table.

  "Well, there you be," Ramey said double checking the documents. "He's all yours. And a good thing."

  Cash released a lungful of smoke. "How's that?"

  "Another day of holding that boy and I'm liable to set 'im free. I just can't imagine he done the things he's accused of."

  * * *

  They made camp along a picturesque creek with grassy banks and plenty of kindling about. The day was pretty much spent and the horses needed a rest before the next full day of riding.

  Cash reclined against his saddle lying on the ground in front of the fire that he had built with Eddie's help. He stirred the coals into a blaze with a long tree branch and watched as his prisoner strode to the creek's edge. The youth sat down on a small rock removing his boots with some difficulty because of his bound wrists.

  "I've brought plenty of food," Cash said.

  "Yeah, but nothing beats a fresh cooked trout. Now you watch, marshal, my pa taught me how to fish barehanded." He began wading out into the stream, stopped and spun around. "Don't ya know, marshal, this would be a lot easier with the handcuffs off."

  "Sorry, Eddie."

  "I know, I know," he grumbled, turning back to his task.

  Cash couldn't help recalling his own childhood when his stepfather, Chief Lightning Cloud, had taught him how to live off the land. Memories of snagging fish from Fall Creek during the hot summer months brought a grin to his face.

  "Gotcha!" Eddie yelled. His shackled hands flew up to the left then down to the right as he clasped tightly onto the squirming trout until he lost his footing and fell into the water. The fish swam away while Eddie rose up shaking his head like a wet dog and sputtering a string of curse words.

  Cash guffawed at the scowling youth. "You sure that's how your pa taught you?"

  The Kid's face broke into a beaming smile. "Ok, marshal, for that, you don't get any. Enjoy them bacon and beans."

  Eddie took his time for the next one, waiting patiently, quietly. In a burst, he dove his hands into the rolling creek and brought out a medium size trout. He held this one with a steadier hand as he made his way back to the bank where he lifted his catch triumphantly above his head, letting out a big whoop.

  "Now, marshal," Eddie said setting the fish along the fire. "What say we strike a deal? Some tasty, cooked-to-a-golden-delight trout for my freedom."

  "Wouldn't you like to think so," Cash said with a wink.

  "Aw, hell," Eddie said. "It was worth a try, I r
eckon. I'll still share my fish with you."

  * * *

  "Now, Eddie, I've told you not to fall back any farther."

  "Sorry, marshal. I'm not use to riding such long distances over ground like this." With his wrists handcuffed in front of him, Eddie tapped the reins on his Morgan coming alongside Cash.

  "That's hard to believe. You're wanted in half a dozen states."

  "I normally ride by coach or rail, marshal, but I didn't commit those crimes." The afternoon sun bounced off the youthful chagrin. "But, I guess, I don't expect you to believe me."

  "Son, it's not for me to believe you—that's up to the judge and jury in Cheyenne. What's hard to believe is so many posters could be wrong."

  "Like what?"

  Cash pulled the creased over papers from his saddlebags and unfolded them. "Burning down the Methodist church for starters ain't going to win you any accolades."

  "Now, I admit I set a fire in the trash. But it wasn't just me, it was also D.J. Robinson and Corey Ward. We was just kids farting around to get out of church. Now whoever stole the church money is beyond me."

  "And murdering a woman in Texas?" Cash handed the next wanted over. A faint smile ticked in the corner of the Kid's mouth.

  "Ah, heck, marshal. This makes it sound like she was a gray-haired, old marm."

  "What difference does it make? You killed her."

  "That's just it. I didn't. Look here. I went to Galveston, or I should say pa sent me to work on Clayte Johnson's ranch. Why heck, the moment I hit Galveston, Andi, or I guess I should say 'old lady Johnson,' was all over me. Heck, she jumped in my bed as soon as her old man rode to town overnight on business. I tried to do my best and fend her off but eventually ... well, heck, like I said, she was no marm.

  Cash's mouth twitched a grin.

  "You know what I mean, don't ya, marshal?"

  "Yeah, we've all had a Mrs. Johnson, but we don't end up killing her."