"Who did he kill?"
"Another Indian, a kid who was half-starved to death." Miles said.
She looked between the two lawmen.
"And this would involve the marshal service, how?"
"According to Brave Coyote, he caught the kid breaking into a general store in Casper. He tried to stop him but in the scuffle, the gun went off, killing the boy," Cash said giving a bucket to one of the horses and began filling the second.
Miles placed some oats in a feedbag for each of the horses and picked up telling the narrative. "Folks have raised quite a ruckus over what they consider Indian lawlessness in the territory and Brave Coyote was convicted as a result." The local sheriff asked us for assistance tracking him.
"But he was trying to do a good thing, wasn't he?"
"No witnesses," Cash said. "And Coyote was caught with some of the stores pilfered goods. He's been sentenced to hang. He's escaped and is considered dangerous."
Delilah looked at the face on the poster. "I'm all for taming this land but I'd hate to see an innocent man jerking at the end of a rope."
"Ma'am one of us could ride with you to your uncle's. You'd be safer staying with him until Brave Coyote is caught," Cash said.
Delilah shook her head handing the poster back. "No, this is my land, my husband is buried here. I'm not leaving it un-guarded."
Cash and Miles exchanged glances. "Ok, but if you see him, take extra provision," Cash said. "He's on the run, and not just from us. The kid's father—a man named Askook—is tracking him too. He's apt to react like a cornered rattler if anyone gets in his way of revenge."
With the horses fed and rested, the two marshals saddled up. "Ma'am," Miles said, "we should be back in a week, maybe sooner if we catch him. We will stop back through to check on you."
"Thank you, both." The men tipped the brims of their black Stetsons in unison and turned west, riding away.
* * *
As the Deputy U.S. Marshals disappeared over the ridge, an empty feeling settled within Delilah. She turned to the rambling, shingle-roofed abode with the half-finished porch and wondered why she bothered to stay. Her eyes flicked to the wooden cross under the elm and she chided herself for having these thoughts. John Murphy was a strong man whose land came second only to his love for me, she thought, and I won't leave it. I'd rather die defending it.
She grabbed the gun entered her modest home and closed the door. John had always taught her to remove the bullets from the rifle for safety, but considering what might be headed her way she felt safer with it at the ready. She leaned it behind the door like she always did.
Delilah walked to the table, sat down, stood up and paced some more. Each time she was up, she looked through the window beside the bolted door. She ran her hand over the glass she wiped down faithfully every day. "Civilized" is what John said a home was with a proper see-through window. She wanted to close the shutter to feel safe, but she knew it needed to be left open to watch for the approach of any unwanted guests. She contemplated making herself a pot of tea, but she didn't feel like sitting still. Instead she tossed the chicken she'd killed that morning into a pot along with some potatoes and carrots, hung it on the fireplace hook and swung it over the fire to simmer until suppertime.
She paced some more then shouted, "Enough!" Delilah grabbed her battered straw hat hanging from a nail on the wall and strode back outside. By God, she wasn't going to be a prisoner in her own home. The garden needed weeding, and later the chickens had to be shooed into the coop and secured for the night, not mention a cow who would be bawling to be milked and butter to be churned. And that was just what she was going to do. Indian or no Indian she had chores to do and by damn she was going to do them.
Delilah marched the short distance to the barn to get the hoe, quickly scanning the horizon for trouble. The area was empty except for a scrawny rabbit that skirted off into the distance. A light wind kicked up some dry dirt as she got to weeding. Only the sound of her hoe working down the rows broke the silence.
A few hours later, after milking the cow, Delilah walked out of the barn coming face-to-face with the wanted man from the poster. She opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out. She stumbled backward, regained her footing, but dropped the bucket she was carrying, the dry ground lapping up the spilled milk. She straightened her back, standing tall and firm.
He walked up to her, hovering over her with a fierce look in his dark eyes. He wore farmer's dungarees and a dark-brown hat pulled low. A long single braid from the back trailed across his shoulder and down the front of his chest. A Spencer rifle rested in his right hand. He flung a rapid-fire series of Cheyenne at her. She stepped back but he moved forward with her.
"Stay ... away."
He advanced staggering, like a drunk. There was nothing more unpredictable than a drunken Indian her father had once warned her. She went to take another step back but saw the blood running down his arm and instead rushed forward managing to catch him before he fell.
"C'mon, Coyote, you've made it this far, help me get you to the house." She felt foolish for her initial reaction. Bracing herself against his weight, the two struggled together into the house.
* * *
Delilah dreamt she and John were entertaining President and Mrs. Grant in their home. She was fretting over not having proper silverware while John argued reconstruction with the president. A sharp pounding on the door interrupted. She strode across the floor to open it but stopped short. Marshals Laramie and Miles stood on either side of the door shaking their heads no. John looked displeased and yelled for her to open the door. Delilah reached for the knob but it was already turning.
She jerked awake, clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle her scream. She had fallen asleep in her rocker in front of the fire. Her heart pounded in her ears as she looked toward the door, the bolt was still slid home. The house was shut tight against whatever lurked in the darkness outside.
Light from the fire flickered into the room, illuminating the form of Brave Coyote stretched out on the braided rag rug in front of the fireplace, rifle still clasped in his right hand. He stirred, muttering in his sleep. Delilah stretched, the smell of burning flesh still lingered in the room. The bullet had lodged in his arm, forcing her to dig it out and cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding. She knelt down beside him and touched his face. It felt cool, no fever. He'd be able to leave at first light. Gently, she let her finger trace the scar line under his left eye, remembering the day she'd put it there.
Brave Coyote had ridden his pony into the yard, with her husband laying stomach-down across his lap. Delilah had raced across the yard, all fangs and claws, trying to get her husband away from that frightful Indian. She'd drawn blood before she realized that John wasn't dead.
Coyote carried John into the house and laid him gently on the bed. They tended his wounds for three days before he succumbed to infection. John had told her how Coyote had saved him from the grizzly that had attacked him and brought him home so he could see his sweet Delilah one last time.
"I owe that man a big debt, Delilah, I trust you'll see to it he gets paid." Those were the last words John had spoken to her.
Delilah shook off the memories and set a pot of coffee on to boil. If Coyote hadn't killed Askook, the man tracking him, he'd probably be standing on her doorstep come morning. The injured Indian wouldn't be hard to track with all the blood he'd lost. Not for the boy's father, not for the marshals.
* * *
As dawn stretched her pink fingers across the sky, Delilah opened the shuttered window. It looked quiet outside, no sign of people or horses marred the ground. Brave Coyote remained sleeping as she grabbed the milk bucket from its peg and headed toward the barn. She stopped by the coop to let the chickens out. Scooping corn from the barrel, she scattered it across the ground for the clucking chickens, then gathered up the eggs they'd left behind in a basket by the door.
As she entered the barn, a leathery arm engulfed her neck from behind, sto
pping just short of choking the life out of her.
"Where is he?" a deep voice growled.
"Who? She choked as she struggled to undo the blacksmith-like grip that tightened.
"Brave Coyote. I tracked him here, and there is no sign that he has left. He killed my son, I want his blood."
Delilah wheezed some more and her heart raced as she considered her few options. Keep him talking. "Will his blood bring your son back, Askook?"
"Nothing will bring my child back, but I can't let Brave Coyote go unpunished for what he did. Where is he?"
"And your son, why was he stealing from the store?" She gasped a brief intake of air. "Feeding your family was your responsibility, not your son's. Who's going to punish you for failing your family, for letting their bellies get so empty that they needed to steal to survive?"
"I don't need a lecture from the likes of you, woman." Askook spun Delilah around, his eyes cutting through hers. He swung his right hand back, revealing a knife, and then plunged it toward her face. Delilah grasped Askook's corded forearm, blocking the weapon's descent. He clutched her neck with his left hand, walking her back against the barn wall. She thrust her right knee up between his legs. Askook crumpled and she shoved him and the dagger away.
Delilah stumbled back landing her tailbone on a sharp stone. She rolled over, struggling for breath, nails digging into the packed-earth floor for traction. Askook reached out and grabbed her leg with his left hand. He regained his footing and forced her on her back. Delilah kicked her free leg at Askook as he once again plummeted the knife at her. She screamed, but the echo of a rifle drummed out her cry. A segment of Askook's face ripped away and his body collapsed. Delilah pressed both palms up thrusting the cadaver from her.
She turned to find Brave Coyote standing behind her, smoke rising from the barrel of the Spencer. He rushed to her side and helped her up, handing her a handkerchief to wipe off the blood and brain matter. Eyeing Askook's remains, he lowered his head and dropped to one knee. "God, I hate killing."
"But you saved my life and that of my husband. He would have murdered us. This countryside takes more than it gives back, we do what we have to do to survive."
"They will catch me." As if to second his thoughts a horse whinnied out in the corral. Its cry matched by another.
Delilah rushed to the opened door; she caught a glimpse of the marshals returning.
"Quick, take your clothes off," she said as she knelt beside Askook and started stripping the clothes from the dead man. "I'm going to put your clothes on the body. The marshals who are tracking you will be here in seconds. They need an Indian to make those townsfolk happy, and believe me, a dead one will make them happiest."
They barely got the clothes swapped and Coyote hidden up in the haymow before Cash and Miles rode up to the barn. Delilah dug her fingernail across the skin under the left eye as she turned the cadaver over.
"We heard a rifle shot," Cash said entering, colt drawn. He looked at the body and then back to Delilah, "Are you ok?" Miles who entered on his heels circled the area.
She nodded. "I'm fine. He tried to attack me ... I had to. Well, it looks like I got your Indian for you."
"Looks like," said Cash holstering his weapon, stooping down, studying the corpse. "But he seems a bit shorter than I remember."
Miles nodded wandering over, standing directly in front of Delilah, catching her eye.
Delilah stared long and hard at Miles before she spoke. "I've heard that all Coloreds and all Indians look alike to a white man. Haven't you, marshal?"
"I do believe I've heard that sentiment expressed more than once in my life, ma'am."
"Yes, I thought you might have. Now, I've got me a dead Indian here and I say that with that scar under his eye and those clothes he's wearing, that is Brave Coyote. Besides half his face is missing."
"I don't know what game you're playing, Mrs. Murphy, or why, but you can't expect me to take this man back to town and say that he's Brave Coyote when I know full well he's not," said Cash.
"Do you read the Bible much, Mr. Laramie?"
"Can't say that I do, ma'am."
"There's a verse in Ecclesiastes that says, 'The living know that they shall die: but the dead know not any thing, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten.'"
"And your point?"
"You take this body back to town and Brave Coyote is dead and forgotten and I will have paid off a debt that my husband entrusted to me when he died. You see, Brave Coyote once saved my husband's life."
"'Also their love, and their hatred, and their envy, is now perished; neither have they any more a portion for ever in any thing that is done under the sun,'" quoted Miles. He motioned Cash to the side, speaking in a whisper that Delilah could still make out.
"I believe the lady is right, Cash, this here is the body of Brave Coyote. You didn't believe he was any more guilty than I did. We'd best tote this one back to town and let Mrs. Murphy get on with her chores."
Cash rubbed his jaw. "It would work because everyone wants to bring this matter to a quick close and calm the citizens." He leveled his gaze at his partner. "You can live with it?"
"More so than bringing an innocent man back to be hanged."
"Mrs. Murphy," Cash said stepping forward, "the marshal service would like to extend its thanks for capturing the dangerous outlaw known as Brave Coyote. I have a feeling you will be somewhat celebrated after this and will be entitled to a reward."
"Oh no, I wouldn't feel right taking a reward, can you arrange for Askook's wife to get it? As for being celebrated, I didn't do anything special, just defended my home."
Cash and Miles bent down and picked up either side of the body carrying it outside where they draped it over the back of the spare pinto.
Delilah said goodbyes to both marshals who saddled up and headed off for the long ride back to Cheyenne. Delilah waited until they were out of sight before going back into the barn.
Brave Coyote was sitting on a bale of hay on the bottom floor.
"They are right you know. Newspapermen will want your story. Maybe some will even write one of those penny dreadfuls about you." He managed a weak smile.
Delilah sauntered over, sitting next to him and looking around. "Any money would go to you, fixing up the house and buying John a decent headstone."
There was a silence as they stared at the dried blood on the earthen floor, neither of them pleased at the possibility of making money off the death of a man and his son.
"I could come back here and help out with repairs, after all the excitement dies down, that is."
Delilah reached for the rugged hand clasping it in hers and staring into his eyes, "I would like that."
THE OUTLAW MARSHAL
Mason Doig slapped four aces on the table, chuckling as his opponents' eyes rolled white. All three men folded their cards and threw them down. He wiped the winnings toward him with the crook of his arm and then stacked the coins in several neat piles.
"I'll be ... I'll be ... you're one lucky bastard, Doig," Teeth said grinning ear to ear. Doig made Teeth's acquaintance earlier that day and took an instant shining to the simple, chatty hombre.
"Too lucky," the chap seated across from Doig mumbled as his money found a new home. Doig's eye slanted cold and hard at the tall, square-jawed gambler wearing a Stetson pulled low, his vibrant blue eyes barely visible from under the brim, and a cheek full of tobacco.
"You got something to say?" Doig snapped, rolling the ends of his Dragoon mustache between his calloused fingertips. What the hell is your name anyway, stranger?"
"Stranger will do fine." The answer was bitter with hostility.
"Whoa ... hold on, boys," the fourth player, Sparks, interjected. "This is a sociable game. No need to turn ugly." The barrel-chested man wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. "I've been watching Mr. Doig and, as a professional, can vouch he's dealing legit."
Stranger huffed and Teeth hastily added, "What were w
e jawin' 'bout anyway, Sparks?"
"Cash Laramie."
"Yeah, yeah, that's right," Teeth said. "The Outlaw Marshal. You feel he's after you, Doig?"
Doig's hardened stare twitched from Stranger to his newly found bootlicker. "Ain't no feel about it, I know."
"He threaten you or something?" Sparks asked.
"Never even met the badge toter but word reached me in the hoosegow that he claimed Territorial Prison was too good for me and the beatings I took on a regular basis in that godforsaken shithole was paid for by him."
"What'd you do to end up in Territorial?" Sparks asked.
"Ain't done nothing." Doig shuffled the cards as he spoke. "I was wrongly accused of lynching a nigger. Imagine we live in a day and age when even if that was true I could be sent up."
"Why would this marshal make it his business?" Teeth said.
"Turns out he's a half-breed Injun and slave lover to boot. Shit, I hear he wears an arrowhead 'round his collar and partners with a black marshal." Doig's eyes were drawn to the leather thong on Stranger's neck and whatever dangled from the end was concealed under his shirt. A chill washed over Doig.
"I've heard of this Cash Laramie," Sparks said. "Heard he gunned down a father and son in Macyville a few summers back—"
"—because someone shot an Injun friend of his," Teeth interrupted, pounding the table with his fist. "I heard that. Hey, didn't he clean up that Masked Devil business in Pleasance? And something with that locomotive."
"The Sundown Express." Sparks snapped his fingers. "Yep, he killed a bunch of banditos holding a train-full of hostages. Saved Lillie Langtry's life and got a medal from the president."
"Are we here to play cards or join the Cash Laramie Fucking Admiration Society?" Doig sneered.
"Play cards," Stranger said.
Doig raised a brow at Stranger and shifted uneasily in his chair. He dealt another series of pasteboards, his gaze fixed on the man across from him.
He'd come to Dodge because the city's marshal was known to keep a lid on violence and it seemed safer to hide in plain sight rather than having a loco lawman gunning for him in the hills. If his growing suspicions turned out to be true—that this stranger was the avenging lawman—surely the man would think twice before putting a bullet through him around here.
Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series) Page 7