Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series) (3 page)

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 attacker'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.

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 reckon. 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."

"I said, I didn't." Anger tinged his voice. "Look here, Mr. Johnson comes back early from buying cattle in Dallas and catches us in bed. He gives me a helluva lambasting, within an inch of my life, but I manage to escape out the window and down the lattice. I'm saddling my horse when I hear the gunshot. I should have went back to help her but I was real scared. I just skedaddled. I guess he up and killed her."

Cash opened a canteen and took a swig of water.

"You do believe me?"

Cash placed the posters back and passed the canteen to the earnest-looking face. Sheriff Ramey's trouble believing the Kid's guilt was becoming clearer to Cash. "Like I said before, it's up to a judge and jury to decide."

Eddie went to take a drink as a bullet sliced the air knocking the canteen from his grasp. Hot lead dotted both horses, hammering them to the ground. The pinto fell on Cash's left leg trapping him under its weight. He struggled to shake clear as Eddie crouched low behind his own fallen horse. The shots were raining down from a steep cliff towering above them.

Cash yanked the keys from his belt and tossed them to his prisoner. "Get the hell out of here!"

Eddie unlocked his shackles, snagged his Navy Revolver from Cash's saddlebags and took aim, returning fire. They ducked again as horse flesh ripped away.

"Marshal, let me try moving this mare off you."

"Not a chance with them pinning us." Cash grabbed the shotgun from the saddle boot. "Head for those trees yonder and see if you can get around them. I'll lay some cover. Ready?"

Eddie nodded.

Cash peered above his dead horse. "Go!"

From his angle Cash couldn't get a clear bead on a target but began pumping buckshot high, into the rocky fortress. Eddie sprinted across the open plain with a trail of dirt rippling behind him, diving behind a large oak tree.

The ambusher's had two targets to contend with now. Only one shooter's bullets continued to blow chunks of horse in a splattered arc over Cash's head. He spotted Eddie, out of the corner of his eye, now making a run for the base of the cliff to flank them. Cash cranked out a few more shots, then hid behind the pinto after running out of shells. Dammit, he thought, if he could just use the shotgun for leverage to free his trapped leg, but it wasn't possible while being held down by searing lead.

Silence fell around him, followed by random shots belonging to Eddie's revolver. A few more slugs tore into his Pinto and then the firing came to an abrupt stop.