Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series) (13 page)

"Mining, Mr. West," Smith said. "That could be quite risky. Would you be accustomed to taking big risks?"

"Done it a time or two," Cash said. "Raise you ten." He shoved a chip into the middle of the table.

"You really shouldn't do that, West. This will make the fourth hand you've lost in the last hour, and your pile of chips looks rather thin." Smith showed a whisper of a smile, but didn't look at Cash as he spoke.

"I'll damn well play cards the way I want to play them," Cash said, his voice a little louder than necessary. Talk of mining lapsed and the onlookers turned their attention to the game once more.

Smith's little smile remained. His black eyes were flat, expressionless, deadly. On the table before him lay one card face down, a jack of spades, a jack of diamonds, and a deuce of clubs. On the surface, Cash had the advantage with two queens and a ten of spades.

"Check," Smith said. Henry dealt two more cards, an eight of hearts to Smith, a four of clubs to Cash.

Smith's bet.

"Well, West. It comes down to the hole card, does it not?" Smith rubbed the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. "Ten," he said, shoving a chip to the center of the table.

Cash pasted a matching little smile on his own face. "Match ten, raise ten." His blue eyes bore into Smith's.

Smith nodded. "Call."

Cash flipped over his hidden card. A queen of diamonds. "That gives me three of a kind," he said. "No way you can top that."

Smith nodded again. "Almighty lucky all of a sudden," he said.

"Gotta win once in a while. You've been mowing 'em down all evening. How'd you work it so's I'd win, sharpy?"

Smith eyed Cash with quiet distain. "Are you saying I cheated, West?"

Cash fastened Smith with smoky eyes. He reached across to the empty chair where Smith had deposited his stovepipe hat. Calmly he placed his palm on the top and squashed it flat. "If the hat fits, Smith, wear it."

Smith stood smoothly, his eyes never leaving Cash's face. He stepped back from the chairs surrounding the table to a clear space, then took a ready stance. His hand hovered over the walnut handles of a Remington Army .45. Spectators cleared out from behind him.

"How do you want to call this one, West? You can only insult a Southern gentleman so far, you know."

Cash kept the thin smile on his face. His blue eyes harkened back to the sundance trial of his youth. His face could have been hacked from granite. He opened his mouth, but the double-click of shotgun hammers being eared back cut him short.

"Alright," the bartender said. "No shooting my place up. Understood?"

Cash let his body relax. He retrieved his Stetson and placed it low over his brow. He smiled the thin smile at Smith. "Never you mind, Ronald. Mr. Smith and I will settle our differences elsewhere. Is that not correct, Smith?"

"We will do that, West. We surely will."

"I'll take my money, Henry."

"Will do." The gambler counted out bills for Cash's chips. Not as much of Penn's money as he'd laid down, but a decent repay.

"Later then, Smith." Cash touched a finger to the brim of his hat in salute.

"Yes, West. Later." Smith sat back down.

Cash left the saloon, not worrying about a back-shot from Smith or anyone else. And they would have been surprised to see the broad smile on his face.

On his way out of town, Cash stopped by the telegraph office so the sun was long down by the time he got to Snooker Ridge. Cash tied Paint off the trail and out of sight, then took cover in a jumble of boulders. He heard the clip-clop of Smith's walking horse minutes before it came abreast of his hiding place. He could tell The Lawyer was in no hurry.

Just before he passed Cash, Smith spoke. "That you, Laramie?"

"It is. Just keep your hands on the saddle horn and we'll be just fine."

"An execution? Not like a marshal, I'd say." Smith's voice carried a hint of irony, but there was no tremble of fear in it.

"Thought we could palaver a bit," Cash said.

"We could've talked at the card table."

"How'd you figure out who I am?"

"Arrowhead. Heard of a U.S. Marshal named Cash Laramie who always wore one. Besides, James West hasn't been around these parts for years. The Secret Service only scouts the way when the president heads in this direction."

"James West's a pretty common name."

"But you're not a common-appearing man. So. What do you want?"

"Why the stovepipe? That went out with Lincoln."

"Haberdasher friend made it for me. What of it?"

"Josh Randall saw you making a quick exit from Anne Pritchard's boarding house. And I've got a copy of the telegram you sent to Washington. It says, 'JOB FINISHED STOP MAKE FINAL PAYMENT.' Reckon the money's why you're still in these parts."

Smith said nothing for a long moment. Then, "Is that all, Laramie? Nothing you've got'll stand up in a court of law, you know."

"The Lawyer, eh? Why would a defender like you start killing?"

"None of your concern, Laramie. None at all. I'm going to start my horse down the trail. If you shoot, you'll shoot me in the back."

"Whoa. Who said anything about back-shooting? Besides, sometimes killing is more than justified. A rich kid shot my friend in cold blood, just because he was Arapaho. I killed him. It was a gunfight, but I killed him."

Smith heaved a sigh. "So what."

"So a bunch of rowdies fired up on bad whiskey and worse opium raped your Cheyenne wife, then killed her and your children, hacking them up in a frenzy, leaving their bodies scattered all over your house. Right?"

The Lawyer's shoulders hunched as if he were enduring incredible pain. Words hissed from his clenched jaw. "None. Of. Your. Fucking. Business, tin star."

Cash released the hammer of his Colt and returned it to its holster. He stepped out of the jumble of rocks and walked up alongside The Lawyer. "Smith, I'm not trying to egg you. I know exactly where you're coming from. Those hard cases that did your family in, they died. I know they died. I have no proof, but if I'd been you, they'd die. And I reckon that's what put you on the side of justice."

"Justice. What the hell is justice, Laramie?" The depth of The Lawyer's pain was mirrored in his words.

"I know you kill for hire, Smith. I also hear that you never kill just for the money. I hear there's got to be a miscarriage of justice involved."

"How do you figure that? You as much as accused me of killing Senator Woodruff, whose life I saved from a bunch of stagecoach robbers."

"But you didn't kill those owlhoots. You left them wounded for me or another lawman to find."

"Well. Yeah. They weren't nothing to me. Who knows? They might go straight after some time in jail."

"See? Justice. So there's got to be some justice involved in the Woodruff killing."

"The people he's moving off their land are relatives of my wife."

"And the senator's vote was the deciding one," Cash said. "But I'd sure be interested in knowing who paid you to do it, but I don't reckon there's any kind of a trail I could follow to the source of that money." Cash sighed, and holstered his Colt. He paid no more attention to Smith while he walked back to Paint, untied him, and mounted. When he reached the trail, Smith was waiting, his Remington in his hand.

"Sometime you may trust the wrong man, Laramie." The Lawyer said. He leveled the six-gun at Cash.

Cash grinned and adjusted the black Stetson on his head. He turned his back and kneed Paint on down the trail. But the horse had only taken two steps when The Lawyer's Remington crashed. A pine bough, snipped from an overhanging limb, dropped on Cash's shoulder. He reined Paint to a stop.

"Sometime you may trust the wrong man, Laramie," The Lawyer repeated. "But this time, trusting my honor served you well." Smith holstered his Remington.

Cash pulled a cheroot from his vest and bit off its end. He rolled it into the corner of his mouth without lighting it. "Pay you to stay out of my neck of the woods, lawyer man."

The Lawyer removed his stovepipe and smoothed it into its proper shape. "Done," he said. "Good day, Marshal Laramie."

 

 

 

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

David Cranmer writes the Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles Western noir stories under the pen name Edward A. Grainger. He also writes crime fiction and is the editor and publisher for BEAT to a PULP webzine and books. He lives in New York with his wife and daughter.
Other titles from BEAT to a PULP:

 

Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles Vol. II

 

by Edward A. Grainger
(available for Kindle)

 

 

Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles Vol. II
continues to chronicle the tales of two unorthodox 19th century U.S. Marshals. With seven more adventures, this collection includes the novella "Origin of White Deer" where the outlaw marshal leaves his Arapaho home as a teen to find his roots in the lawless town of Cheyenne, Wyoming. These noir tales infuse the Western genre with a fresh perspective on topics like race relations and social justice while still delivering pulse-racing action in the tradition of
Wanted: Dead or Alive
and
Gunsmoke
.
The Guns of Vedawoo

 

by Wayne D. Dundee
(available for Kindle)

 

 

U.S. Marshal Cash Laramie is sent out to locate a shipment of stolen guns in the Vedauwoo area of Wyoming where the rocky terrain is treacherous and enshrouded in mystical beauty. In his quest, Cash goes up against an amoral opportunist looking to stir up discord in the region by selling the weapons to a group of Native Americans.

 

 

THE GUNS OF VEDAUWOO is the second Cash Laramie novel by Wayne D. Dundee, following on the heels of his bestselling MANHUNTER'S MOUNTAIN.
Hell Up in Houston

 

by Garnett Elliott
(available for Kindle)

 

 

Houston has been called "a sprawling city of astronauts and cowboys, in the middle of a swamp." And now Jack Laramie, rural-wandering PI, is headed up that way after his faithless Desoto blows its radiator. Jack's got a bit of a past with the city, in the form of a Cajun PI named Lameaux--a guy who mixes his "investigations" with organized vice. So Jack decides to lay low, holing up in a swanky downtown hotel called the Fulton. It's a splurge after sleeping in an old horse trailer night after night, but Jack figures he deserves a break. Until the Fulton's grizzled house detective shows up with a proposition ...