Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series) (6 page)

"Anything?" Cash whispered rubbing his square jaw.

"It's as quiet as a soiled dove in a church pew," Miles replied. The black lawman knelt beside him and flipped the collar of his Mackinaw jacket up to brace against the strong wind.

"Same here."

"Remind me again, what are we doing?"

Cash tipped the brim of his Stetson up, took the unlit cigar from his mouth, and pointed to a tall Gothic marker in the center of the graveyard. "Two deaths happened there on the McAllister family plot."

"As in Solomon McAllister, local railroad baron here in Twin Falls?" Miles asked.

"Yep. Biggest toad in the puddle 'round here." Cash leaned back against the headstone, chewing the end of his cigar. "Solomon's long-lost brother, Lazarus, dropped dead about a week ago when visiting the family plot. And two days later, the gravedigger keeled over while burying him. Our client, the two boys' old man, seems to be on his last leg and assumes everyone is circling like buzzards for the inheritance. He was suspicious before the deaths and now, with two children dead, even more so. And with next to nothing for leads, I figured it wouldn't hurt to camp out a bit and see—"

"And see," Miles continued, "if a woman with a good build ... mousy face ... smeared makeup ... cock-eyed hat and rumpled expensive clothes shows up?"

"Huh?" Cash peered over his shoulder and then spun around. "Hannah McAllister Faust."

"Ah, C. Auguste Dupin, pray tell."

"She's the old man's only daughter," Cash explained. "Her husband died during the war and she has since been running a couple of McAllister family-owned businesses ... running 'em right into the ground. Most notably the local newspaper."

In halting steps, Hannah approached the headstone, paused, and then flung herself on the grave, crying out loudly.

"Yesterday, before you rode in, I interviewed the family and met her. She seemed genuinely upset over Lazarus' death."

The woman ran her hand over the engraved named. A scything wind raced across the cemetery, whipping up dead leaves that circled Hannah's flowing white dress.

Hannah spoke inaudibly as she reached into her handbag and withdrew a small Derringer.

Cash and Miles scrambled forward but the smell of sulfurous smoke and the thump of her collapsed body signaled they were too late.

Solomon McAllister sat in an office which, save for a massive wooden desk more resembled a decorative New Orleans brothel than a tycoon's place of business. Long lace curtains spilled down to a plush carpet decorated with nymphs dancing through a forest of flowers. Garish art featuring naked women adorned the walls and a heavy smell of stale cigar smoke lingered. Cash settled in the chair across from him.

"I am relieved she did not die alone," Solomon McAllister declared matter-of-factly. He stared at the paper his late sister had owned. The headline shrieked, BONE ORCHARD MURDERS CONTINUE.

"Murders?" Cash said.

Solomon slid the paper to the side of his desk and took a sip of tea before continuing. "No, of course it's not murder but Hannah would have approved of the sensationalism to keep the paper afloat and folks are whispering about the peculiarity of three people dying on the same plot of land." He daintily placed the teacup back on the saucer. "Our local sawbones reports Lazarus and the gravedigger died of heart attacks. And you are eyewitness testimony to Hannah's suicide. Still the word 'murder' moves print."

"Do you know what reason your sister would have to take her own life?" Cash asked.

"She was heartbroken over the loss of Lazarus."

"Excuse me for saying so, sir, but killing oneself over the death of a brother one hardly knew is, well, unusual to say the least. Wouldn't you agree?" Cash was losing his patience with Solomon's flippant attitude over his sister's passing.

"Not in Hannah's case. She was very dramatic. Given to hysteric fits like most women but even more so in her case."

"How so?"

"When our father gave her the paper and the silver mine to run, it was against my better judgment. She doesn't—didn't—have a head for business. Very addle-minded ..."

Solomon McAllister let his voice trail off as if the effort to continue was too great.

"Huh ... I didn't get that impression when I met her."

There was a loud knock at the door.

A skeletal man with swollen eyes stepped in. "Your signature is needed, sir."

"Where?"

"The usual, sir."

"Oh, of course." Solomon hastily made his scratched mark.

"Both pages, sir."

Solomon squinted at the document. "My sister's death has me a little flustered." He finished signing, handed them back to the assistant who left and then turned to Cash, "Where were we?"

"I was saying she didn't seem like that timid a woman."

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Yes, they can," Cash said spotting a photograph on a bookshelf. He walked around the desk leaning in for a closer look. "How is your father handling your sister's death?"

"I've decided not tell him in his present condition. As you know, a seizure has left him frail. Bedridden. I don't see the need to add to his hardship."

"Do you mind?" Cash asked studying the daguerreotype.

"Not at all. It is one of just two that exist of the whole family. Mother took the other when she left for Europe, with Lazarus, over thirty years ago."

Cash removed the dusty photo from the shelf.

"Have you sent word to your mother about Lazarus' and Hannah's deaths?"

"Mother passed away six months ago from consumption." Solomon lowered his head and traced a scratch on the desk with his finger. "She couldn't eat and had shrunk to a skeleton of her former self, coughing up blood ... it was a most horrifying death."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Cash replaced the framed daguerreotype.

"Marshal Laramie, I am a little curious, as I mentioned the other day, why the marshal services has intervened in my family's unfortunate matter."

There was another knock. Swollen Eyes was back.

"Sir, it's three o'clock."

Solomon McAllister looked perplexed.

"Your weekly meeting with the committee."

"Oh, yes. Marshal Laramie will you excuse me? Please help yourself to a drink."

"Much obliged." Cash lifted the full pot of freshly brewed Arbuckle's coffee and poured a cup.

"Yes, the paper is struggling through some difficult times but with the latest tidings, we are at present on an upswing," squeaked Clyde Bishop, editor of the Twin Falls paper, and now its temporary defacto head. The weasely man peered over the top rim of his round spectacles and scrunched his nose, "Heck, marshal, we have papers from as far away as San Francisco paying for exclusive information." He noticed Gideon Miles' fascination with the printing press. "Care to see how the newsprint is made?"

"If you don't mind," Miles said.

"I'd be glad to. First you set the letters." The man's fingers moved briskly as he put the last few blocks in place. He grabbed a bottle from the work table and continued his discourse, "Liberally ink the surface. Then lay your paper stock onto the press being sure you don't smudge it." Bishop slid a large blank sheet into place. "Put your frame over the paper so it holds it in place, slide the whole thing under the press, and then pull this lever toward you to clamp the press down, giving you a fine imprint." Bishop lifted the press and handed Miles the freshly printed page.

"Very nice." Miles ran a finger gently over the margin, noticing a gap in the center of the lowercase "Z."

Bishop caught the look and chagrined. "Yes, an imperfect impression, we intend to buy new pieces as soon as we turn a profit."

"And Mrs. Faust's death and the unexpected publicity will help you to realize that."

"Yes, very exciting—" Bishop stopped cold in his ramblings and snatched the paper back, eyeing the lawman with contempt. "Is there anything else you need, marshal?"

"I suppose that'll do."

"He ain't the same if you know what I mean?" The Magnolia saloon girl winked at Cash, the single plume feather from her colorful headdress danced as she bobbed her head.

"I'm not sure I do." Cash looked to Miles whose raised eyebrows asked the same question.

"Do you reckon there's a reward?"

"Maybe we can compensate you for your troubles. If we get information we can use," Miles said.

Cash raised his empty glass to the bartender who nodded and reached for a bottle of whiskey.

"What do you mean Solomon McAllister isn't the same?" Cash questioned.

"Well, it ain't proper for a lady to kiss and tell, but let's just say when I stopped by for our usual rendezvous this week, he wasn't packing the piece I'm familiar with."

The bartender slammed the bottle in the middle of the table. "Now Miss Jo, we have other customers that need tending too."

"Horace, these Marshals are paying for the time."

The bartender's eyes settled on Gideon Miles. "I'm afraid the only reason you were allowed in the Magnolia is because you're wearing that star. But we don't serve your kind here, boy. I don't care who you are. Now, the men at the table over there don't take kindly to you talking to their women."

The marshals had already spotted the three Faro playing cowpokes trying to stare them down.

"What do you mean by 'your kind'?" Miles asked.

"He must be referring to those city slicker clothes you're wearing." Cash smirked to Miles, and then turned to the bartender with a look of gravity, "I swear, I've told Miles that no man who puts in an honest day's work can be so clean."

"I ... I was referring to—"

"What's that, barkeep?" Cash said.

"We don't tolerate Negros in our place," the biggest of the cowboys announced like a carnival barker. He stood firmly planting his feet apart. The other two followed suit.

Cash turned to Jo. "Probably best we talk later. You head on out of here."

She nodded and took flight up the stairs and peeked back around the corner to watch.

The bartender scurried behind the counter for cover as the three men fanned out in front of the card table. Miles stood kicking the chair back with force. He pulled his jacket back revealing his gun.

The leader of the trio looked at Cash, "Marshal, we got no beef with you. Your boy here can wait outside."

"Fellas, I sure hope you come to your senses." From under the cover of the table, Cash pulled his Peacemaker. "Drawing irons on a federal marshal is prison worthy enough but to pull a gun on Mr. Miles here, one of the few men who stood toe-to-toe with Johnny Ringo and lived to tell about it, well, that's just plain suicide."

The owlhoot to the far left went for his pistol but before a finger even touched the cold steel, he screamed out as a bullet burned into his left shoulder, flinging him back against some chairs, toppling them over.

A white line streamed from the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel of Gideon Miles' Colt. "Draw!" he thundered to the other two cowboys crouched down with hands on the butts of their guns. "I like this game you're playing."

They looked at each other and their fallen partner who was staining the floorboards crimson. They straightened up and raised their hands over their heads.

"I don't think they wanna play anymore." Cash said, first looking at Miles and then turning to the startled faces. "His speed is breathless, isn't it? Now, gentlemen, lay your guns on the floor, take your friend to the doctor and then turn yourselves in to the sheriff."

Each man dropped their irons and then grabbed a leg, dragging their whining friend through the swinging doors.

"Oh, and boys," Miles said, the men stopped without looking back, "make sure you turn yourselves in. I'd sure hate to come after you."

A streak of blood trailed after them as they left.

Miles holstered his Peacemaker and turned to Cash, "I think I'll finish interviewing Miss Jo. I may be a little while."

A smile broke free of Jo's mouth, as she rose from her corner, waiting for Miles to join her. Cash grinned laying his Colt on the table and reaching for the bottle of liquor. "No problem, there's enough firewater here to pass the time."

Miles' shovel bit down into a piece of earth, and he tossed it aside.

They dug for over an hour in the hard-packed ground. Cash stopped to push the brim of his hat up and wipe the sweat away. "Maybe, I'm wrong, but women like Jo know their men. And after checking with Solomon's personal physician, I believe we will be able to determine what monkey business is going on around here."

"So now we are grave robbers?"

"If we wait for permission from a judge, any evidence here will be lost." Cash said tapping the ground.

Miles nodded.

"And so," Cash's shovel hit the casket with a thud, "our answer should be inside."

They cleared off the remaining dirt and positioned themselves to the sides. Miles opened the coffin, the stench made them reel back and cover their faces with handkerchiefs.

Cash studied the man's build. "Would you say he's bigger or smaller than the Solomon McAllister we met?"

Miles fished a lucifer out of his shirt pocket and scratched it to life, squinting at the cadaver. "Definitely bigger. Otherwise, a dead ringer."

"Damn lucky it's been cold enough to keep the body from decaying any further."

"Move that light over here," Cash said finding the wallet in the man's jacket. "Good."

Miles peered over Cash's shoulder, "A business card. Lazarus McAllister Esq., London, England. That's interesting."

"What is?"

"Look at the gap in the "Z" of his name. Bishop at the newspaper office showed me the printing press earlier today and the chances of Lazarus McAllister making up business cards upon arriving in town or a duplicate press with the same deficiency in England are slim to none."

"Well, one more thing to check for." Cash said, pulling a pair of leather gloves from his hip pocket."

"The teeth?"

"Yep. His doctor said he had extensive surgery done in the last few months to include some fancy gold fillings."