Manhunter's Mountain (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series Book 4) Read online

  Copyright © 2012 by BEAT to a PULP

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The story herein is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover image from iStock; Design by dMix.

  PO Box 173

  Freeville, New York 13068

  USA

  Email: [email protected]

  Visit us at www.beattoapulp.com

  Praise for Manhunter's Mountain:

  MANHUNTER'S MOUNTAIN is a fine Western adventure pitting man against man and man against nature. Filled with gritty action and sharply drawn characters, this is one that Western fans won't want to miss.

  —James Reasoner, Spur Award nominee and author of Texas Wind

  *

  When the bullets start flying, U.S. Marshal Cash Laramie is in his element! A true son of the Old West, Laramie delivers justice in a cloud of gunsmoke.

  —Mel Odom, Author of "The Rover" series

  *

  Wayne Dundee takes Edward Grainger's Cash Laramie and puts him into an fast-action Western tale that has everything you could ask for: an appealingly tough protagonist, a combustible (literally at first) situation, some low-down villains, a couple of pretty women, and unforgiving weather. Bleak, hardboiled, and even funny at times. Check it out.

  —Bill Crider, Author of the "Sheriff Dan Rhodes" series

  *

  MANHUNTER'S MOUNTAIN shows a powerful side to Cash Laramie as he makes his way down the side of a mountain with a prisoner in tow, and two prostitutes eager to flee a mining town that's gone bust, looking to make a new life for themselves. An early winter storm promises to make the journey more than a normal struggle. And, leaving town with two of its most precious gems, the prostitutes, puts Cash in the crosshairs of an angry gang of men who are willing to keep the women in town … at any cost.

  A fast, hardboiled Western that continues the Cash Laramie legend with swagger and good, solid writing. Wayne Dundee brings his masterful voice to the Western and tells a Cash Laramie story in perfect pitch. MANHUNTER'S MOUNTAIN should be on every Western fiction reader's bookshelf.

  —Larry D. Sweazy, Spur Award-winning author of The Coyote Tracker

  *

  CONTENTS

  Credits

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Excerpt: The Guns of Vedauwoo

  About the Author

  Other titles from BTAP

  Connect with BEAT to a PULP

  –ONE–

  A sign at the edge of town read SILVER GULCH, even though word had spread as early as last summer that the vein up in these mountains was mostly played out. The gulch was still there, though, and what remained of the town—a handful of ramshackle wood buildings and a string of ragged, mud-spattered tents—looked like it ought to be shoved in and covered over.

  Cash Laramie rode in one evening in early November, just as darkness was settling. The air carried the bite of fast-approaching winter and all day the sky overhead had been bloated with heavy gray clouds. Cash reined his horse over toward one of the larger tents that had some rickety wooden fencing and a lean-to of rough-hewn logs out behind it. Three or four horses milled inside the fence and Cash sensed there may have been a couple more lost in the shadowy recess of the lean-to.

  Dismounting, Cash stepped over to the heavy blanket covering the tent's entrance. Some light leaked through from the other side. He called out. "Hello in there! Anybody around?"

  "Come on in out of the cold," a voice responded from within.

  Cash pushed the blanket aside and entered. The interior was unexpectedly roomy, with wooden crates, barrels, and bales of straw lining the walls. A sagging bed with a bearskin blanket could be seen in the back. At a table in the middle of the room, situated just ahead of a flat-topped cooking stove with a stovepipe poking up through a slit in the tent's peak, a pot-bellied, bewhiskered man sat before a flickering lantern, gnawing on a piece of jerky and drinking coffee.

  "Welcome, stranger."

  Cash tipped his black Stetson. "Didn't see no sign, but your place has the look of a livery stable."

  "That's because it is a livery stable ... Use a cup of coffee?"

  "Be obliged."

  "Take a seat, then." The pot-bellied man rose, rummaged to find a tin cup, then filled it with dark, steaming brew and placed it in front of Cash after he'd sat down. Returning to his own chair, the man said, "Oh, by the way, that'll be five dollars."

  Cash paused with the cup raised partway to his lips, eyes boring into his host.

  The man threw back his head and emitted a hearty chuckle. Then he said, "Just funnin' you, stranger. Just funnin' ... But, man, you should've seen the look on your face!" He gave another chuckle. "Only you know what? Time was, not so long ago, back when the silver was pourin' outta this old mountain in bucketfuls, some fool opened up a café here in town and that's what they was chargin' for a cup of coffee. What's more, there was even bigger fools payin' it!"

  "Hard to believe anybody could be that big a fool."

  "Well, it's a fact. I swear ... But you go ahead and drink yours now, son. It's free. My hospitality, no more funnin'."

  Cash tried some of the coffee and it was surprisingly good.

  "Now, as far as my livery business here not havin' a sign," the pot-bellied man continued, "I had me one once, but the wind blew it down. Never bothered puttin' it back up because by then everybody hereabouts already knew Bushberry's Livery—Bushberry, that's me. Abe Bushberry."

  "Well, Abe Bushberry," Cash said, "I got a horse outside needs some grain and water and to be put up for a spell."

  "How long a spell?"

  "Overnight should do it, I expect."

  "Just passin' through, eh?"

  "You might say that."

  "Don't get a lot of passin-throughers these days, especially this time of year. Already had some snow up in the higher peaks, some on the way here before long. I can feel it."

  Cash nodded. "You're right. I want to get back out before it hits. I came up through Split Rock Pass and the first big blizzard of the year usually closes that up. I don't want to have to go the long way through Kelsey Canyon."

  Bushberry frowned. "You just got here and you're fixin' to turn around so fast?"

  "Got to pick up something first," Cash said, taking another sip of coffee, "then I'll be on my way."

  "What you fixin' to pick up, you don't mind my askin'?"

  Cash smiled thinly. "Fella that owns the blaze-faced chestnut you got out there in your corral ... Know where I can find him?"

  * * *

  The saloon didn't have a name either, just a rectangular sheet of plywood leaning up alongside the door with the word SALOON hand-painted in red letters down its length.

  Cash pushed open the door and walked in. The building was one of the town's few wooden structures, its floor uneven, walls leaning at odd angles, windows lopsided. But it was relatively clean inside, with a long,
ornate bar off to one side. In the center of the room there were a half dozen round-topped tables. At one of these, four men were playing cards. They appeared to be the only customers in the place. Cash was carrying the Winchester Yellowboy from his saddle scabbard, holding it down alongside his left leg, and he'd unbuttoned his mackinaw for easier access to the Colt riding on his right hip. He paused in the doorway long enough to determine that none of the card players was the man he was after, then proceeded toward the bar. In the middle of the room, a man Cash presumed to be the bartender—heavyset, walrus mustache, wearing an apron—was standing on a chair and lighting the last of the candles in one of two wagon wheel chandeliers that hung from the ceiling.

  "Be with you in a minute, friend."

  "Take your time." Cash dropped onto a stool. He laid the Winchester on the bartop in front of him, spread some coins beside it, took a cheroot from his pocket and lit it.

  After climbing down off the chair, the man in the apron came around to the other side of the bar. "What can I get you?"

  "Beer."

  When it came, the beer was foamy, watery, and warm.

  "You sure this ain't horse piss?" Cash growled.

  The big bartender shrugged. "Came out of a keg marked 'beer' is all I know. Can't guarantee what went into the keg."

  "Christ. There's ice crystals in the air outside, you could at least keep this swill cold."

  "Some folks chase down a shot of whiskey with a beer. You find that beer so distasteful, maybe you oughta try 'er the other way around," the barkeep suggested.

  "Not likely. The only thing else I want from you is some information."

  "Information about what?" The question came with a suspicious frown.

  Cash spread the front of his mackinaw open a bit wider, displaying the U.S. Marshal's badge pinned to his shirt. "I'm looking for a fella named Ames. Lobo Ames. I was told I could find him here."

  "Nobody in this place by that name," the barkeep responded quickly. Too quickly. He was a poor liar, so poor that he couldn't even keep his eyes from darting inadvertently toward the stairway that led to an upper deck of rooms.

  "Could be, since he's a wanted outlaw," Cash drawled, "he's using a different name. You'd know him if you saw him, though. Wiry fella, salt and pepper hair, got a scar on the side of his face from where he was mauled by a big ol' he-wolf when he was a lad. That's how he come by the name, maybe how he come by his meanness and ornery disposition, too."

  "Sorry, none of that rings no bells with me. Nobody like that's been in here."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Said so, didn't I?"

  Cash's head tipped in a slow nod. "Okay. Maybe if I was to ask my question in a different way?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Cash leaned forward across the bar and his brilliant blue eyes bore into those of the barkeep like two knife points. "It means," he said through gritted teeth, "what if I was to take the butt of this here Winchester and ram that bristly mustache of yours clean out the back of your lyin' damn skull—then would you remember Lobo Ames comin' in here?"

  The bartender was a big man used to dealing with rowdy customers and more than once had used his ham-like fists to quell trouble. But something about the cold blue fire burning in the eyes of the marshal warned him that this time he was looking at a whole different brand of trouble. Still, he tried to bluff it out. Swallowing hard, he said, "You got no right to threaten me that way, Marshal ... and the answer'd be the same, no matter."

  Both of Cash's hands shot upward, seizing each of the big man's ears. Then the lawman jerked forward and down, slamming the other's face hard onto the polished wood surface of the bar. The man's nose crunched and the ridge of bone above his eyes thudded like a gavel strike. When Cash lifted the barkeep's face, holding it now with his left hand wrapped in a tangle of greasy hair, blood was smeared all over the walrus mustache and starting to run off the ends in a scarlet drizzle.

  "Changed my mind and decided to spare my Yellowboy the wear and tear," Cash said as he grabbed the Winchester in his right hand and swung it from the bar with a flourish. "But I can change it back and still use this for some more persuadin' if you ain't yet convinced I don't like being lied to."

  "Okay ... Okay," the barkeep gasped, blowing droplets of blood. "The man you want ... upstairs ... room seven."

  "He alone?"

  "There's a girl with him ... one of my whores. Try not to hurt her. I only got two left."

  –TWO–

  "I'll shoot any man tries to interfere with me doin' my job!"

  With that terse warning barked at the bartender as well as the card players, Cash turned and bounded up the stairs to the second level of the establishment. The layout up there was simple—a long hallway branching off the landing in either direction, five rooms on each side. Making room seven the second door to Cash's right. He walked over to it and leaned close, listening for sounds from inside. Then, taking a step back, setting his balance, he lunged forward, kicking the door open wide and going through in a low crouch with his Winchester held at the ready.

  Lobo Ames was propped up on the bed, leaning back against a pile of pillows. He was smoking a cigarette, clad only in a pair of dingy gray longjohns. Near the foot of the bed, in the soft glow of a lantern, a young woman with tinted red hair, naked from the waist up, sat before a wash basin sponging soapy water onto her bared breasts and shoulders.

  The girl looked around indifferently as Cash barged in.

  Ames twisted on the bed and made a grab for the holstered six-shooter that hung from a post on the headboard.

  Cash crossed the room in a single long stride and kicked again, this time slamming his boot heel against Ames' wrist, knocking it away before he could seize the gun. Ames fell back with a curse and then Cash was hovering over him, the muzzle of the Winchester aimed squarely between the fugitive's eyes from a distance of mere inches.

  "Make another wrong move, I paint the wall with your brains," the marshal growled.

  Ames lay totally still, frozen, clutching his bruised hand and looking up at Cash with a glare that carried equal parts hate and fear.

  The redhead at the wash basin remained seated, almost as an afterthought lifting her hands to cover her breasts. "I'm a Deputy U.S. Marshal apprehending a wanted fugitive," Cash said to her out of the corner of his mouth. "You don't want any part of this, so pull something over yourself and get on out of here. Move it!"

  The girl did as she was told, skirting around Cash and disappearing from the room.

  "Mighty glad you didn't show up a little sooner," Ames drawled. "I was ridin' that pretty filly hard and fine up 'til just a short time ago, sure would've hated for that to have got interrupted."

  "That's real romantic. It better have been a memorable ride, because it's going to have to last you quite a spell. Where you're going, the fillies are few and far between."

  Ames smirked. "We'll see about that. Where you're taking me, I've been before. And it ain't ever lasted all that long. I have a way of cuttin' my visits short ... Unless, that is, you're gonna keep me pinned down here with that rifle shoved up my nose until I starve to death or something."

  "I couldn't stomach being in close quarters with you for that long." Cash took a step backward and motioned with the gun. "Stand up, real easy, and start getting dressed ... and don't even think about reaching for that gun again."

  –THREE–

  Cash and Ames, the latter walking in front with his hands cuffed behind his back, emerged from room seven and moved over to the landing at the top of the stairs. "Hold it a minute," the marshal said and Ames halted.

  Cash's eyes swept the barroom below. The card players were gone. Only the barkeep was there, standing behind the bar, holding a bloody bar rag to his face and glaring up at the two men.

  "Go ahead. Slow and easy." Cash prodded his prisoner with the muzzle of the Winchester.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Cash said to the bartender, "What happened to all your cu
stomers?"

  "What do you think happened?" the man replied sullenly. "You, that's what ... They figured they'd better get the hell out before lead started flying."

  "Luckily, it didn't come to that. Wasn't necessary."

  "What you did to me wasn't necessary, either. Damn you. Bustin' me up like that in my own place right in front of my own customers ... No way that was called for."

  Ames chuckled. "You tell him, Oscar."

  "You keep your mouth shut," Cash told him. To the bartender, he said, "You were obstructing justice, aiding and abetting a fugitive. You're lucky you didn't get worse than you did."

  "Yeah, you look like you got off real lucky, Oscar," Ames taunted.

  "I told you to shut up." Cash once again dug the Winchester into Ames.

  "You wouldn't shoot me in the back, would you, Marshal?"

  "Try me and find out ... Get a move on."

  "Where to?"

  "The jail."

  "Jail? Ain't been no sheriff in this shithole of a town for the better part of a year."

  "Maybe not. But the jail building is still standing, I saw it down the street a ways. That's where we'll be spending the night."

  "You crazy? We'll freeze to death."

  "Just do like I tell you. Out the door and turn left."

  At the door, it was necessary for Cash to reach around his prisoner and turn the knob.

  That's when the barkeep, Oscar, made his move.

  He might have gotten away with it, too, if not for the shouted warning.

  "Look out!"

  Cash pivoted, swinging the Winchester around in the same motion. Behind the bar, Oscar had raised a sawed-off scattergun and his chubby finger was curling around the trigger. Cash's Yellowboy barked once, twice, the shots coming so rapidly it was almost like a single report. Oscar jerked convulsively as the slugs hammered into the center of his chest. The scattergun veered upward and discharged with a fierce roar, its powerful blast ripping one of the wagon wheel chandeliers clean off the ceiling. The heavy fixture crashed onto a card table, flattening it. Oscar toppled out of sight behind the bar, arcs of blood pumping out of the holes in his chest before he went down. Candles from the fallen chandelier went skipping and rolling across the floor in all directions, immediately igniting strewn playing cards and clumps of sawdust scattered on the wooden planks.