Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series) (12 page)

"What about this Mr. Smith?" Cash asked.

Pritchard perked up a little. "Mr. Smith seemed a fine sort," she said. "And he saved the senator during a highwayman holdup of the stage." She repeated the story the senator had told her.

"Do you know where this Smith was headed?"

"He said he was going back to Louisiana."

"Did he say Louisiana was his home?"

"We didn't actually have much of a conversation. He went right to bed, as did I."

"Did he have breakfast?"

"He was gone by the time I went to call the senator at six thirty, so I must assume he didn't eat. And he left his horse tied up outside all night."

"Hmmm. Okay, Anne. That's all. If I think of anything else, I'll look you up."

"Thank you, Cash. I've got cleaning to do, and should be here at the boarding house all day."

"Good. Stick close. The killer may come after you, too. Who knows?"

Anne Pritchard's hand went to her mouth. "Surely ..."

"Don't worry. We're around, and Matthew Mayo's a good guard."

Cash watched Anne Pritchard leave the room, appreciating her upright bearing and the graceful sway of her hips. He turned to the window, rereading the notes he'd taken as she talked.

A rap came at the door. "Undertakers," one of the two men standing at the door said. "Come to get a body."

Cash waved at the blanket-covered body, and turned again to the window to read his notes.

"Draw!"

Cash spun to the right as he drew his Colt, earing the hammer back with the web between his fingers and thumb. The undertaker men dropped the body back into the overstuffed chair and took cover behind it. Cash leveled his Colt, but didn't pull the trigger. A slight blond man with a battered Stetson and a modified rifle in a holster against his leg stood crouched with his hand held out, his forefinger pointing like the barrel of a gun.

"Josh Randall!" Cash said, smiling. "Pulling that kind of a trick's gonna get you killed one of these days."

Cash holstered his six-gun, tossed the notebook on the table, and stood up to meet Randall's firm handshake. "How the hell are you, bounty hunter?"

"Well as can be expected, Cash. Doing fine." He looked at Cash and his eyes turned the color of hard blue agates. "You know, Cash. I saw something last night that you just might be interested in. Let me tell you about it."

"Cash, this telegram don't mean nothing."

"Lemme see." Cash reached over the counter and snatched the yellow paper from the telegraph operator's hand. "It's just Miles' gibberish," he said. He put a dime on the counter. "Get yourself a sarsaparilla, Henry. I can read his message."

Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles, Deputy U.S. Marshals both, often exchanged telegrams in code. This was one of the simpler ones. The codes were not meant to stand up to close scrutiny, but they served to keep casual readers from understanding the contents. Helped stave off gossip. Cash picked out his friend's message from the clutter of redundant words and words spelled backward.

THE LAWYER IS WORKING IN CHEYENNE

Penn read the message twice, the real words written by Cash below the code. "So you think the man in the stovepipe hat, that Mr. Smith, you think he killed the senator?"

"Not ready to bet my whole hand on it, but I'd like to find him and ask him a question or two. Up close and personal." Cash smoothed the rim of his Stetson and put it back on his head. "You know, I kinda thought all that talk about The Lawyer was a story, but like some other stories you hear, there's a lot of fact mixed in with the fantasy. Killer all right. But not just one. No one man could do all the slaying he has been accused of. My reckoning anyway."

"Could be. Those dime novels don't help either. But we've cleaned up before, we can do it again." Penn leaned back. His chair creaked under his weight. "You've got an idea where the stovepipe man is, then?"

Cash handed over another telegram. "I've got a gambler friend who says he played with Smith at the Black Mask in Wounded Dove. I'd like to go over and play a hand, see what I can dig up."

"He the same one that saw him at Pritchard's boarding house?"

"No, that was Josh Randall. Charlie Gramlich—he's a gambler and sometimes hired gun—he's in Wounded Dove. From where I stand, his word's as good or better than that of any lawman in the territory."

Penn leaned forward, and the chair complained again. He ignored the screech. "My secretary will give you some traveling money. You'll have to sign for it and you'll have to bring back what you don't use."

"How many times do you think I've done this, Boss?" Cash's smile took the sting from his words.

"Man forgets," Penn said. "Wire me when you know something. Newspapers are bloodhounding. Washington wants results."

Cash set his black Stetson low on his forehead. He put a finger to its brim. "Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir."

Penn laughed. "Ignorant ass," he said. "Get outta here."

Wounded Dove, Wyoming had the world by the tail with a downhill pull. Men knew they could go to its saloons for friendly card games, a little bucking the tiger, and for warm friendly conversation and other things from the doves who worked the floors. Its general store held the supplies people needed. Wyoming ranches were thriving. The winter had been mild, and Wounded Dove the town was reaping the rewards. New people came every day, and a gaggle of pumpkin rollers had taken out claims on land watered by Rock Creek to the south. Growth. That was the name of the game. Growth.

Cash Laramie recognized the town though he'd never been here before. It was the same as other new towns in the territory—lusty, energetic, loose in some ways, hard and tough in others. It was the kind of town that made a country grow. A little wild, maybe, but full of vitality. He pulled Paint to a stop in front of the Black Mask saloon, dismounted and looped the reins over the hitching rail. He slapped the dust from his clothing, then unpinned his badge and slipped it in a vest pocket. Putting a hand on each side of the batwing doors, he pushed them open.

The room, like the town, was familiar. Bar down the left-hand side of the room. Tables down the right. Desultory card game going on at the far table. None of the players was Charlie Gramlich and none matched the description of Mr. Smith. Cash moved to the bar, and the barman behind it moved to meet him.

The barkeep swiped at the bar top with a damp towel. "What'll ya have, sor?"

Cash looked closer. "Ronald O'Hara? Is that you, man?"

"Aye, but it is, sor. Are ye still toting a badge, sor?"

Cash lowered his voice. "Not so's you'd notice, Ronald. Not so's you'd notice." He winked. "Tell me. Charlie Gramlich been around?"

O'Hara swiped the bar with the towel again and leaned closer to Cash. "Charlie's been here all right, Cash. Been and gone. Dunno why he left in such a hurry, but he did. Done and gone, he is."

"What're the poker stakes like?"

"Right now, penny ante. Ain't nobody over there who rolls on the high end."

"Ya got Maryland Rye?"

"Have we got Maryland Rye? Is Hell hot? Do angels have wings? Bet your bottom cookie we've got Maryland Rye. Why?"

"I'll have a bottle."

"Sor, that's a sissy drink, it is. Have something with body, like Jameson's."

Cash shook his head and smiled. "Know where you're coming from, O'Hara, but I've got to keep my head on my shoulders. Can't afford to get tipsy."

"If you say so, sor." O'Hara went to get the drink.

Cash took the opportunity to watch the card game. The players looked like ranchers, except for the house gambler, a man in a white shirt with garters on the sleeves.

"Yer rye, sor," O'Hara said.

"Thanks. How much?"

"Two bits, Cash, sor."

Cash laughed. "Always preferred that," he said. "That's how I got my name." He paid, took the bottle by the neck, and wandered over to watch the card game.

When one of the ranchers pulled out, Cash said, "Gentlemen. Mind if I sit in?"

The card players swept him with hard glances, measuring him as an opponent. All they saw was a trail-worn rider with dust on his hat, black shirt, vest, and trousers, all dusty, and black boots that had seen better days. Cash's Arapaho arrowhead and its leather thong hid beneath his shirt.

"Help yourself," the oldest rancher said.

Cash sat down and put his bottle on the table. "Five card stud?" he said.

"You got it," the old rancher said. "Nickel ante."

"Fine with me." Cash would be paying with expense money from Penn's secretary, but he didn't worry about it. He won more often than he lost at poker tables.

Over a slow half hour, Cash managed to lose three times out of four.
Not my money
. The men were not good poker players and kept their stakes low. No wonder Gramlich had moved on. He did find out that a man called J.D. Smith usually came in to gamble in late afternoon, often staying until dawn, if there was any action.

"Seems a nice chap," a rancher said. "Plays for the fun of the game. Never seen him upset over a hand, his or another's."

"Reckon he'll be in today, then?" Cash asked, looking at his cards with a serious expression. "Might he play for a little more than nickel ante?"

"Dunno" was the dealer's answer.

The game went on. The mousy looking girl who served drinks lit the coal-oil lamps. "Hey, Mona," a man at the far table hollered. "Gimme another whiskey, would ya?"

"Hold your damn horses, cowboy. Can't you see I'm lighting the lamps?" She laughed, as a floor woman should. Never pays to rile a customer. Cash watched her.

"Hey, mister. We got a card game going here. Wanna watch the butts and tits, go back to the bar." The rancher who spoke was a steady loser, but didn't seem to worry about it. He seemed to enjoy the bluff and counter bluff.

About the time Mona finished lighting the lamps, J.D. Smith walked in. He took a moment to note the position of everyone in the saloon. His eyes stopped at the card table. Two of the ranchers who'd been playing poker had already left, so Cash, the gambler whose name was Henry, and a rancher named Franks were the only ones at the card table.

Smith ordered a whiskey from Mona, removed his stovepipe, and came over to the poker table. "Mind?" he asked.

Cash shrugged. Franks nodded. Henry indicated an empty chair. "Five card stud," he said. "Nickel stakes."

"Thank you." Smith sat. "Gentlemen," he said. "Shall we begin?"

Henry held up the deck, and O'Hara came with a new one.

Cash sized Smith up, without seeming to watch him. Height: five eight. Weight: a hundred fifty pounds or so. Late thirties. Seemed a bit of a dandy, but also had an electric aura of danger that showed from deep within his black eyes.

Smith sipped his whiskey, a slight smile on his face. He kept his eyes straight ahead, looking at a place somewhere between Cash and the bar. Cash knew Smith was watching with peripheral vision. This was a man to steer clear of.

After the third hand, Smith beckoned Mona over. "Could you get me a plate of that good roast beef from the Garvey Hotel restaurant? Baked potato, too. Lots of gravy. Hmm?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Smith. Right away." Mona hustled out the batwings and around to the restaurant, which was next door to the saloon.

Cash won the next hand. He left his winnings on the table in front of his chair and stood. "Henry, I'm gonna stretch my legs and have a cigar. When I get back, I'd like to play another round. Okay?"

"You got it," the gambler said.

Cash seemingly paid no attention to Smith, but he felt the man's deadly eyes following him as he left the saloon. He reached into an inner pocket of his vest and withdrew a cheroot. He paused a moment, hunching his shoulders to shield the cheroot as he lit it with a lucifer scratched against the saloon wall. He ambled past the window behind the card table and continued down to the telegraph office on Commerce Street. There was no reply to the wire he'd sent earlier. He returned to the game.

Smith was still eating his meal, but when he finished, he came back to play with Cash, Henry the gambler, and a wealthy rancher named Harlow Wilson. Franks had left as soon as the stakes went up. Before long, raises were a minimum of five dollars, then ten. News of the big money game flew around Cheyenne and people gathered to watch the card players. Wilson dropped out, for all his claims of wealth from a ranch in Arizona, another in Texas, and a beginning in Wyoming. Henry dealt. Smith and Cash played.

"What's that I see around your neck, sir?" Smith asked. "An arrowhead? Unusual to say the least."

"Won it in a poker game," Cash said. "Dodge City."

"Is that right? Earp still the tin star there?"

Cash sipped at his Maryland. "Last I heard, Dodge was under the thumb of a man named Dillon. Matt Dillon. Big tall sucker."

"Dillon? Never heard of him."

Henry dealt the cards. Smith picked up his and fanned them out for a look. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his eyes calculating.

Cash got an ace and some garbage. He decided to talk. "If you don't mind my asking, where you from?"

"Don't mind at all," Smith said. He tossed a card and Henry gave him a new one. "Rayne, Louisiana," he said.

"You're a long way from home, mister ...." Cash fished for a name.

"Smith. J.D. Smith. I travel around on business."

Came time to put up or shut up and Cash folded, losing more of Penn's money.

"What about you? Don't believe I got your name."

"West. James West," Cash said. "I do some of this and some of that. Up here because I heard there's mining interests coming in, and that interests me."

"Mining interest, shit," said an onlooker. "Only ones making money from mining interests is them with money. Them's the ones bringing in chinks 'cause they work cheaper than micks or spades. Mining interests, my ass."

The argument spread and the noise level in the saloon went up three levels. Good thing a man doesn't think with his ears. Cash signaled for a card to replace the one he discarded. Henry dealt it with a deadpan face. Smith acted as if they were playing cards on some distant shore with no more than the lap-swish of waves to disrupt the silence.