Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series) (11 page)

The Lawyer leaned down close to the blacksmith's ear. "I'm not going to kill you, asshole." He jerked the blacksmith's head around so he faced the gator. "
That
is."

"Oh, God!" The big man struggled against his bonds. "Oh, God. Mister. Don't. I never killed none of your family. Not one. You can't do this."

"You were there. You watched. You liked watching. As far as I'm concerned, that's the same as cutting or stabbing or shooting."

The gator edged closer, its eyes on the meat standing up and its nose full of fresh blood from the meat lying down. The lawyer grabbed hold of the blacksmith's belt and heaved him closer to the edge. The gator hovered. One more heave and the blacksmith's head touched the water. The gator lunged, jaws lined with three-inch teeth clamped over the blacksmith's shoulder. The gator heaved backward, pulling the screaming blacksmith further into the water. It changed its position, biting deeper into the man's arm. Then it started its death roll. In seconds, the blacksmith's arm was a bloody stump. The gator had ripped it from his body and pulled it from the ropes around the wrists. Blood spurted from torn arteries. The blacksmith's screams said he was no longer human, just prey. The gator struck again, fastening its jaws over the blacksmith's face and neck. The roll started again. This time the gator pulled the meat off the embankment and into the water. Mud bubbled to the top as the gator continued its roll of death down, down, down to the bottom of the bayou.

The Lawyer stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the roiling water. Neither blacksmith nor gator came up. Only blood, and mud. The surface of the bayou eventually quieted. The moccasin wiggled back across the water. One more burble of blood rose to the surface. The Lawyer adjusted his wide-brimmed Stetson down over his eyes, then strode to his horse. He coiled the lariat he'd used to drag the blacksmith to the gator's dining table, mounted the blood bay mare, and fastened the lariat to the saddle horn. He patted the Morgan mare on the neck. "That's it, Redemption, Baker was the last of them." He neck-reined the bay around, and took the levee road to the riverboat landing.

The Hale and Hawkins stage made its usual entrance in a cloud of dust. And as usual, Scarecrow Jim sawed at the reins like the veteran driver he was. But instead of pulling the Concord to a stop in front of the H&H Stage Station, he drove the big coach right on by to Pritchard's Boarding House, a two-story yellow-and-white building at the far end of Main Street.

Two well-dressed men climbed out of the coach. "Driver," shouted the first, a rotund man in his fifties with a leonine shock of white hair. "Driver. I'd be obliged if you'd toss my bags down. Here's a dollar for your trouble." He held a rumpled greenback.

"Shit, Senator Woodruff. I'd toss yer damn trunks down fer nothin', far as that goes." Scarecrow Jim plucked the bill from the fat man's hand anyway.

"And how is it that you know my name?"

"Folks ain't always who they say they is," the driver said. He pulled a newspaper out from under his offside leg and handed it down to Woodruff. The
Cheyenne Gazette's
headline touted, "Senator Woodruff's Plan for Indian Replacement." Beneath the headline, surrounded by type, was an etching of Senator Woodruff himself, the man who now held the newspaper.

The second man out of the coach put on a top hat as he exited, and he sported a fine hickory cane. He stabbed a finger at the caricature. "No mistake, sir. That's definitely you." Half a smile played on the thin lips of his thin face. "Shouldn't we get inside?" He, too, held up a dollar bill to Scarecrow Jim. "For my baggage, driver."

The driver plucked the bill from the man's hand and started undoing the ropes that held the baggage in place.

"Inside, yes. Well ..." Senator Woodruff glanced up and down Main, which was quiet on that Wednesday night. "I suppose you're right, Mr. Smith."

"Your bags, Senator Woodruff." Scarecrow Jim handed the two heavy leather bags down. Woodruff accepted them one at a time and wrestled them to the boardwalk.

Smith untied his Morgan mare from the rear of the coach, then came back in time to accept his own small bag. The other passengers stayed inside.

Scarecrow Jim cracked his whip above the ears of the lead team and sawed the horse reins, turning the coach around in a broad circle that barely fit the confines of Main Street. A hundred yards down the street, he whipped the teams around again to face the way they'd originally entered town. He whoaed them in front of the H&H station so the other passengers could get out.

Senator Woodruff, obviously not used to carrying his own bags, struggled down the boardwalk toward the front door of the boarding house. Smith led the bay Morgan to the hitching rail, where he looped the reins. The Morgan immediately went hip-shot as if he'd spent the best years of his life hitched up.

The door opened before Smith and Woodruff reached it. "Good day, senator. I am Anne Pritchard." The woman stood almost as tall as the senator, but had less than half his girth. Her face said she was in her forties, but her hands said she'd lived a hard life. She glanced at Smith, who stood behind Senator Woodruff.

"Pardon me," Woodruff said as he swept a hand toward Smith. "This is J.D. Smith. He did me a favor this evening and I hoped you might provide him with a room."

Anne Pritchard pursed her mouth. "Well, all the rooms are taken, but I can fix up a couch in the den if that is acceptable. Such temporary accommodations are less than room rates, of course."

Smith tipped his tall top hat. "A couch would be more than ample, madam."

"There's a livery about three blocks back down Main."

"Thank you, Mrs. Pritchard, but I'd prefer that Redemption stay close at hand."

"He defecates in front of my boarding house and you'll clean it up, Mr. Smith." The owner of the boarding house didn't seem happy at the idea of Redemption standing in front of her establishment all night.

"Yes, ma'am," Smith said. "May I point out that Redemption is a she, if you please?"

She gave Smith a curt nod. "Come along, senator. Mr. Smith can come after he's tended to his animal friend."

Smith chuckled. He unsaddled the Morgan mare and threw the horse tack over the hitching rail. From the bulging saddlebags, he extracted a gunnysack that had been made into a nosebag. It contained a good quart of oats, and he fitted the bag over Lucinda's ears so she could eat while he looked into his accommodations.

Mrs. Pritchard left Smith in the den and showed Senator Woodruff to his room on the second floor. It proved somewhat larger than the normal hotel room, and it contained a large four-poster, an ornate commode with a china washbasin and water pitcher, two cedar dressers, and luxurious floor-length curtains that set off the carpeted floor.

"Thank you for allowing Mr. Smith the use of the den for the night, Anne," said Senator Woodruff.

Mrs. Pritchard swept across the room to open a curtain. "I do run a boarding house, senator, and extra income in these hard times is always appreciated. Is this Mr. Smith an acquaintance, then?"

"Oh no. We first met on the stage, well, he arrived at the stage at a most fortuitous time."

"Intriguing. Intriguing indeed."

Woodruff poured himself a liberal dollop of bourbon from the complimentary bottle on the nightstand. "Highwaymen assaulted us not long after we left Casper," he said. "Mr. Smith appeared and drove off three of the bandits with the most expertise shooting I have ever seen. He shot two of the men in the shoulder and blew the horse out from under the third. He claims that he abhors killing and shot only to wound. Damnedest thing I ever saw."

"What happened to the outlaws?"

"Smith left them trussed up by the side of the road with a note pinned to the unwounded one proclaiming them outlaws and highwaymen. He said that stretch of road is frequently traveled by lawmen and they would likely be picked up soon. I, of course, invited him to ride in the coach as we were going the same way."

"He seemed quite gentlemanly," Mrs. Pritchard said. "Not at all one who would go in for fancy shooting."

"He shoots extraordinarily well," Woodruff said, stifling a yawn.

"Oh, you must be dead tired. Let me turn down the bedclothes." She went to the four-poster, turned down the covers, and fluffed the pillow. "There. Now, what time do you wish to arise?"

"Six thirty in the morning, if you don't mind. The stage east leaves early, and I must get back to Washington to vote on the Indian bill."

"As you wish, senator."

"Oh, could you also package some victuals for Mr. Smith, compliments of me, please? And I will pay his room fee as well."

"Very good, senator. Would that be all?"

"Yes, it would. Excuse me now, it's been a long day and I'd like to retire."

"Certainly," Mrs. Pritchard said. She swept from the room with her back straight as an iron rod and her skirts swirling.

Senator Woodruff realized he'd kept Scarecrow Jim's newspaper. He sat down in the overstuffed chair near the lamp to read the editorial on his Indian bill. "Lies," he muttered. "Balderdash and lies." He rolled up the paper, smacked his leg with it, and tossed it on the nightstand.

Something tapped at the window.

Woodruff pulled back the curtain to see what. The wind was blowing and the limbs of a big old oak tree brushed the side of the building, making the noise.

Finding the room a bit stuffy, Senator Woodruff decided to open the window. He gave the window frame an upward push. It refused to move. He felt around the frame and found the latch on its top. This he undid, then lifted the window and drank in the warm Cheyenne air.

The senator went back to his overstuffed chair as the breeze ruffled the curtains. He picked up his half-empty glass of bourbon and sipped. A good fragrant whiskey, he found. He picked up the bottle. Old Grand-Dad. Not the most expensive, but excellent as a complimentary bottle. He tipped a bit more into his glass.

He did not even sense the garrote that slipped over his head and drew up tight on his throat. He could not shout for help. He could not breathe. He could not think straight. He struggled to put fingers beneath the cord. He couldn't. The world turned red. He struggled for breath, then struggled for life, kicking and bucking and using the last of his failing strength in trying to escape the cord of death. Thirty long seconds elapsed before Senator Josiah B. Woodruff shuffled off his mortal coil. His sphincter opened. His bladder voided. He died, his bulging eyes wide open.

Deputy U.S. Marshal Cash Laramie stepped into the room where Senator Woodruff had been killed, then moved aside as Chief Devon Penn escorted the local doctor toward the exit.

"Thanks, Doc. I'll send someone over for your report later on. And remember," Chief Penn's voice turned hard, "no talking to any newspaper men, or anyone else, for that matter. Don't want rumors getting started, hear?"

The portly doctor shot a glance at Penn's hard face. "Won't, chief. Trust me. Don't like whispering in the dark, and you'll not find rumors starting with me."

"Good, good. Thanks again for coming over." Penn motioned with his hand for the doctor to leave. The medico glanced at Cash as he left, but obviously didn't recognize him. Penn leaned out the door after the doctor left. "Mayo, no one comes in."

"Right, chief," came the reply.

Penn turned to Cash. "A mess, Laramie, a goldam mess."

Cash stepped around the spraddle-legged corpse in the overstuffed chair. "Smells like a goldam mess. Someone did the country a favor. Senator Josiah Woodruff ain't gonna be doing no more voting," he said.

Woodruff's face was bloated. His tongue protruded, stiff and bloody. The eyes stared vacantly into space. Woodruff had not died a pleasant death.

"Hear the senator from Virginia was campaigning to relocate some of our native citizens to lands other than their own," Cash said. He fingered the Arapaho arrowhead he wore on a leather thong around his neck. "Reckon that measure will never pass now."

"But you're not Arapaho." Penn said.

"Naw. All white, whatever that means. Raised by Arapahos, though. Damn good people."

A woman sat in a chair by the window, staring at the floor and wiping tears from her face as they dripped from her eyes. Penn indicated her with a wave of his hand. "This is Mrs. Anne Pritchard, Cash. She found the body. You can get her statement while I take care of the newspaper people. Damn horseflies. Always buzzing around."

"Will do, sir," Cash said.

"Mrs. Pritchard," Penn said.

The woman made no move. She stared at the floor as if she, too, had been garroted to death.

Penn raised his voice. "Mrs. Pritchard!"

She jumped. Her eyelids fluttered. She turned her face toward the chief. "Y-y-es," she managed to say.

"This is Marshal Laramie. He will ask you a few questions, and I'd appreciate it if you gave him full and truthful answers."

The woman blinked, then her back stiffened. "Yes," she said. "Of course."

Penn left the room as Cash grabbed one of the chairs, turned it around and straddled it, arms on the back. "Your statement, ma'am," he said.

The woman said nothing. She just sat there, staring past Cash at the dead body of Josiah Woodruff.

Cash stood, took a blanket from the bed, and covered the corpse. He pulled a tally book and pencil stub from his vest pocket, and sat back down, straddling the chair and balancing the little book on its back. "Statement, Mrs. Pritchard?" he said.

"Thank you, marshal," the woman said.

"Call me Cash, Mrs. Pritchard," he said.

"I'm Anne."

"Tell me what happened. Start when you first saw the senator, please."

Anne Pritchard recounted how the senator and Mr. Smith had arrived, and what had happened when she came to wake the senator early in the morning.

"So you were full up, then, with guests I mean?"

"This is a small guest house, Marshal, er, Cash. Besides the senator and Mr. Smith, there're only two others. Their names are Gramlich and Randall."

Cash nodded. He knew the two gamblers, and figured neither one was a murderer of the kind that would sneak up behind a man and choke him to death with a garrote. That said, Woodruff was a politician, and that meant enemies. In fact, John Wilkes Booth, who shot President Lincoln, was considered an upright citizen before he gunned down the president.