Miles to Little Ridge
Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles Series
as written by
Heath Lowrance
Copyright © 2011 by BEAT to a PULP
PO Box 173Freeville, New York, 13068
Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles
The Bastard Hand
CONTENTS
Christian and the Swede
Lars the Swede chopped wood in the yard out front of the livery stable, and Christian, sitting on a large stump, watched him. It was fascinating, watching the Swede work. He'd heft the ax in his big hands, swing it like a piston, and cleave the logs and stumps with one powerful swoop. Wood chips would fly every which way and the two halves would drop to either side. And the Swede would take up another chunk, put it on the chopping block, and do it again, over and over, sweat shining on his thick torso and dripping down his long, square jaw.
Truth be told, it made Christian feel kinda funny.
He tore his eyes away, said, "You need some water, Lars?"
The Swede grunted, shook his head, taking up another log. He didn't even slow down. He was one wood-chopping son-of-a-bitch, the Swede.
The road through the center of Little Ridge was about fifty yards away, and Christian made his eyes stay on it, away from the Swede. It was mid-morning, and the sleepy mountain town was just waking up. People strolled up and down, doing what normal town folk did on Tuesday mornings. Across the way, he could hear the blacksmith pounding away on his anvil, almost in time to the Swede's chopping. The horses nickered in the stable behind them. Occasionally, one of the farmers or goatherds outside of town would rumble by in a rickety horse-drawn cart, hard-faced fellas who would make the trip into Little Ridge for supplies or a quick whiskey at Mr. Bly's place before heading back out to the hardscrabble life they'd made for themselves.
Christian was damn glad he wasn't one of those farmers or herders. That was no life for an ambitious man. But then again, working at the livery stable wasn't exactly the top of the social scale either.
He said, almost wistfully, "Lars, when we gonna get out of this goddamn town? I'm itching for another job."
The Swede stopped chopping. He rested the ax next to him, wiped sweat from his forehead. "I'm thinking about that. Next month, the bank in Helena is receiving a deposit from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It'll be there for two days before it's transferred out."
Christian said, "Government money? That'd be kinda ... risky, wouldn't it?"
The Swede shrugged, and Christian knew it wasn't going to happen. They'd been in this drag of a town for almost a year now, slaving like dogs, and before that it had been Deer Lodge out in the western part of the state. They'd talked a mean streak about doing another job, but nothing had come of it.
They'd been proper outlaws, once. Stagecoach and small bank jobs all through the Montana Territory and down into Wyoming. But that seemed a long time ago now.
The Swede went to the trough for some water, and Christian pulled out his pouch and fashioned a couple of cigarettes for them. After the Swede drank his fill, he took a smoke from Christian, bent in for the light from Christian's lucifer. They stood there and smoked for a while, not speaking.
They had an odd partnership, Christian thought. The Swede, enormous and hard as a boulder, a devil with the ladies, and Christian wiry and slender and homely. Folks always assumed Christian was the brains of the outfit—someone as big and handsome as the Swede couldn't possibly be the smart one—but they were wrong. The Swede called the shots.
"Well," Christian said, "all I know is we gotta do something soon. I can't take much more of this backwater town."
The Swede grinned around his smoke, clapped the smaller man on the back. "Patience, my good man. A job worth doing doesn't just come along every day, you know. Why—"
He stopped talking, as if his words had hit a stone wall. Christian glanced at him just in time to see the smoke fall from between the Swede's lips. His intense blue eyes were focused on the road.
Christian followed his gaze.
A rider on a solid gray grullo was ambling up the road. A Negro, riding ramrod straight in the saddle. Even under the layer of trail dust, his clothes were well-cut and tailored, and his hat was pushed back enough to show a rugged, fine-boned face. He nodded amiably as he rode past a cluster of townsfolk at the corner, kept going in the direction of the Sheriff's office.
"I'll be a son-of-a-bitch," the Swede said.
"What? What is it?"
"I'll be a son-of-a-bitch!" the Swede said again, louder this time.
"What the hell, Lars. What's got into you?"
The Swede stood up, his fists clenched. "Gideon Miles. That's what's got into me. Goddamn Gideon Miles."
Christian frowned. "Okay, then. Who the hell is Gideon Miles?"
"A U.S. Marshal out of goddamn Wyoming, that's who." He turned to Christian, and his face was twisted and red with anger. "Remember, I told you about that bank job I did out in Nevada two years ago? When we had the loot and were out in the street and everything was going lickety-split?"
"That's familiar," Christian said, even though it wasn't.
"We come out of the bank, and standing there pretty as you please is that goddamn Marshal, Gideon Miles. He wasn't even looking for us. The black bastard just happened to be walking by, if you can figure that. But my buddy Clive, my life-long bosom pal, sees him there in the road with his stupid shiny star and he throws down on him. And that Marshal—"
The Swede choked a little before gathering himself. "That Marshal pulled his gun and shot Clive right in the heart. Killed him, plumb outright."
Christian looked back at the road, although the Marshal had ridden on and was no longer in sight. "I don't rightly recollect you telling me about that, Lars."
The Swede said, "Fuck, Christian, you never listen to a word I say, do you? Makes me wonder how good a friend you really are."
"Hey, now, there's no need for that sort of talk, Lars. I'd never—"
"Never mind that. Where's our guns?"
Christian said, "Lars ... we don't have no guns. You told me to hock 'em last month, remember?"
"Goddamnit!" the Swede yelled, loud enough this time for the folks in the road to pause and look at them. He stomped around like an angry child for a full thirty seconds, cursing and screaming, swinging his fists at imaginary foes.
Finally, he cooled down enough for Christian to say, "What did you think you were gonna do, Lars?"
The Swede looked at him, and a dangerous light glinted in his eyes. "I'll show you what I thought I was gonna do," he said. "I'll show you right and proper."
He picked up the ax and made a bee-line for the road.
Christian stared after him for a moment, his face creased with worry.
"Shit," he said, and hurried off after the Swede.
By Ax or By Fist
The Sheriff's office was a loose collection of cast-off lumber at the end of the road. There was a tin awning above the open door held up by a couple of wooden poles. The place looked as if it had been slapped together by a drunk twelve-year-old.
Gideon Miles reined up in front, dismounted, and brushed the dust off his shoulders. Through a wide crack between two pieces of wall, he could see a pair of boots propped on a sawhorse inside. As he approached the door, the boots came down with a clunk.
A heavy-chested man with reddish-gray mutton chops met him under the tin awning. Miles put him at somewhere around forty, but booze had aged his face. The nose was swollen and red with broken capillaries, the jowls thick. Two bloodshot eyes peered out from under the brim of his hat. He wasn't wearing a gun, but the Sheriff's star glittered in the mid-morning light.
"Something I can help you with, boy?"
Miles ignored the 'boy' comment but noted it as strike one. He said, "U.S. Marshal. Looking for a man."
The Sheriff straightened up a bit, eyed the badge on Mile's chest. He said, "U.S. Marshal? Ain't no such thing as a Negro U.S. Marshal."
Miles said, "You're looking at one, Sheriff. Shall we talk inside?"
The Sheriff frowned, forcing his jowls somewhere down around his neck. He said, "Ain't no wanted criminals in Little Ridge, I can tell you that much."
"Inside, Sheriff."
The Sheriff shrugged and went in. Miles followed him. The only furniture was the sawhorse, two battered wooden chairs, and a cluttered roll-top desk. The cell at the back was made of wood and didn't look strong enough to hold an unruly baby.
The Sheriff sat down in one of the wooden chairs and propped his feet up on the sawhorse again. Miles showed him the warrant, and the Sheriff took it between stubby fingers and looked it over.
"Edward Gandy?" he said. "Now I know you're loco, boy. Edward Gandy ain't no criminal."
"He's wanted for robbery in two states," Miles said, noting the second 'boy.' "My sources have put him in or around Little Ridge. Now tell me, Sheriff—where do I find him?"
The Sheriff shook his head, leaned over to spit on the ragged wooden floor. "I don't care if you are a U.S. Marshal, I won't have some Negro coming to my town and harassing my citizens. Edward Gandy ain't—"
"Sheriff," Miles said. "I'm not going to argue with you. I've just ridden three hundred miles. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm in no mood. You're going to tell me where to find Gandy, and you're going to do it with a smile on your face, because you're just happy as hell to help. I'm going to ask you one more time. Where is Edward Gandy?"
There was a knife edge in Miles' voice that caused the Sheriff to pause. The two men stared at each other for a long moment before the Sheriff dropped his gaze. He muttered under his breath, "Goddamn Marshals, comin' to my town, pushin' me around ..."
