The Guns of Vedauwoo (Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles Series Book 6) Read online

  Edward A. Grainger's

  Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles Series

  THE GUNS OF VEDAUWOO

  as written by

  Wayne D. Dundee

  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 author, 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 photo by Richard Prosch; Design by dMix.

  PO Box 173

  Freeville, New York, 13068

  This is for Richard Prosch, who introduced me to Vedauwoo - WD

  Praise for MANHUNTER'S MOUNTAIN ... available on Kindle.

  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

  *

  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

  *

  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

  *

  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

  Author's Note

  About the Author

  Connect with BEAT to a PULP

  -ONE-

  It was a cool, clear, early fall afternoon when U.S. Deputy Marshal Cash Laramie arrived back in Cheyenne with his prisoner, Luther Hyatt, in tow.

  The pair rode directly to the back side of the federal building, where there was a rear entrance to the holding cells down in the basement. This entrance was the one commonly used by lawmen delivering prisoners to the lockup.

  Cash had been on the trail with Hyatt for three days, leaving him weary, irritable, and anxious to get the suspected killer off his hands. Hyatt was a slovenly, heavy-gutted individual. Foul-tempered, foul-smelling, and foul-mouthed. Charged with butchering an entire family up north near Devil's Tower. Those who'd seen what was left of his alleged victims were quick to offer the opinion that whoever was responsible must have been spawned by the very demon that fabled landmark was named after. Cash didn't know about that but, after spending time in the company of the surly, unrepentant Hyatt, he had little doubt of the man's guilt. A trial was yet to be held, but Cash felt confident a hangman's noose would be the end result and, as far as he was concerned, it couldn't fall around this man's neck soon enough.

  After dismounting and tying both horses—his own pinto and Hyatt's blaze-face, which Cash had been leading—to a hitch rail, the marshal stepped over and slammed the heavy metal knocker several times against the outside of the door leading down to the holding cells. This signaled whatever jailers were on duty inside that a new prisoner was ready to be brought down.

  Without waiting for the jailers to respond, Cash returned to the horses and reached up to unfasten Hyatt so he could climb down out of the saddle. The prisoner's wrists were handcuffed in front of him, with an additional set of cuffs wrapped around the linking chain and then ratcheted tightly to the saddle horn. This kept Hyatt secured in place, allowing him to sit his saddle in reasonable comfort yet denying him any control over his horse and thereby no chance to try and bolt free.

  Before unlocking the manacles clamped around the saddle horn, Cash aimed a dark scowl up at the mounted man and said, "You get a notion to try anything funny, I won't hesitate to drop you right here in the dust. Understood?"

  "You're supposed to be deliverin' me for a fair trial," said Hyatt. "Not bring me all this way only to threaten gunnin' me down like a dog in the street."

  "Consider yourself delivered. Up to you to call the tune on how it plays from here." Cash unfastened the manacles and unwrapped them from the cuffs still clamped to Hyatt's wrists. "And comparin' yourself to a dog," he added, "is an insult to even the mangiest cur I ever saw."

  "Yeah, you'd know all about dogs, wouldn't you?" Hyatt sneered. "Bein' raised by Injuns the way you was, you probably even et your share."

  "When that lockup door opens in a minute, there are two ways to go down the steps leading to your cell," Cashed advised him. "You can walk down, or you can get dragged down ... You keep runnin' your mouth and aggravatin' me, you won't be in any shape to make the trip on your feet. And I've seen those jailers drag other fellas down. Trust me, they don't like the extra work so they tend to do it with a sort of chip on their shoulders. That means they got a bad habit of letting the thick, stupid skull of whoever it is they're draggin' bounce real careless-like on each and every step—sometimes more than once."

  Hyatt's sneer stretched wider. "You don't scare me with that kind of talk. You're just stung because I spoke bad about your precious Injun mongrels. I forgot the other thing you heathen redskins do with your dogs—Tell me, how hard was it to fight off your daddy and brothers for the chance to claim the prettiest bitch in the litter so you could have your turn at fornicat—"

  Before Hyatt could finish getting the words out, Cash grabbed him by his belt and one arm and jerked outward with a snarling curse. He lifted the prisoner out of his stirrups, hoisting him momentarily above his head, and then hurled the man to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  Hyatt landed with a loud Hawff! Air and spittle gushed from his mouth. He squirmed on the ground momentarily before trying to push to his hands and knees. Cash was on him in an instant. A booted toe crashed into stomach and ribs and sent Hyatt rolling lumpily away.

  Cash went after him, reaching down to grab his shirtfront with the intent of hauling him up so he could knock him back down again. But Hyatt had more fight left in him than Cash expected. When the marshal leaned over, Hyatt lunged to meet him, swinging both fists upward with the handcuff chain stretched taut between them. The chain clipped Cash hard under the point of his chin, jolting him, sending him staggering backward.

  At
this moment, the heavy door to the lockup swung open and two uniformed jailers appeared in the doorway. One of the men had some years on him and sported bristly mutton-chop sideburns shot with gray; the other was younger, somewhat gawky in appearance, and clean-shaven. Seeing what was happening, the younger man immediately reached for the billyclub hanging from a loop on his thick uniform belt.

  The older jailer promptly clamped a restraining grip on his partner's wrist. "Hold on there, Bindley me lad. Don't get too excited."

  "But that prisoner's trying to escape," Bindley, the young jailer, wailed. "He's fighting the marshal—we need to lend a hand!"

  "Don't you recognize who that marshal is?"

  "I've only been working here for a couple of weeks," Bindley reminded him. "I don't recognize all the different law officers by sight yet."

  "Well, see to it you remember this one," advised the older guard, whose name was O'Shea. "That scrapper there is none other than Cash Laramie."

  "The one they call the Outlaw Marshal?"

  "Some do. Not me," O'Shea was quick to respond. "His ways may be rough, true. But nobody who plays straight with the law has got a concern from him, says I. And the day Cash Laramie can't handle the likes of that scruffy clod he's mixin' with there ... well, I'm after thinkin' today won't be that day. So just sit tight for a minute, lad, and enjoy the show."

  After Hyatt's surprise blow stunned him and sent him reeling, Cash had barely managed to stay on his feet. In the time it took for him to regain his balance and get his head cleared, Hyatt was up and charging straight for him, swinging his doubled fists in a roundhouse blow meant to finish the marshal right then and there. Cash could have gone for the Colt holstered on his hip, but he rejected resorting to that as quickly as the thought flashed through his mind. No, by God, he'd started this fracas with his two bare hands and that's the way he would end it. At the last instant, Cash was able to twist away and take Hyatt's menacing punch only grazingly off the top of his head. But the momentum of Hyatt's bull-like charge carried him forward and still brought him crashing against the marshal, his shoulder driving hard into Cash's chest. Both men tumbled to the ground, tangled together, pummeling and kicking and cursing.

  It was Cash's misfortune to end up on the bottom of the tangle. He tried to flail his way clear but couldn't get enough leverage into his punches to succeed. Hyatt bore down on him relentlessly, grinding him into the ground. And then the prisoner suddenly reared back and swung his doubled fists again. This time they found their target solidly, hammering against Cash's jaw. With an enraged grunt, the heavier man followed up by lurching forward again, once more separating his fists as far as their restraining chain would allow and then slamming the chain down across Cash's throat. Hyatt leaned into the choke with all his strength and weight, the links of the chain chewing flesh and threatening to pulverize Cash's windpipe.

  Cash struggled in vain. Stars and black spots whirled in his vision.

  Desperately, he reached up with both hands and sank his thumbs deep into Hyatt's eye sockets. The prisoner howled and tried to pull his head away but, in addition to his gouging thumbs, Cash's fingers were ensnarled in the long, greasy hair spilling around Hyatt's face. He gripped the man's head tightly between his palms, jerking, twisting, not allowing it to pull free. All the while he kept digging his thumbs deeper.

  Finally, with a roar or pain and rage, Hyatt released the pressure of the chain on Cash's throat and pitched his body to one side, breaking the clawlike grip of the marshal's hands. He toppled to the ground and tried to roll clear. But Cash wasted no time scrambling after him. Even though he was coughing and sucking for air, he sensed he now had the advantage over the nearly-blinded Hyatt and he wasn't about to give it up. When the prisoner rose to his knees, Cash, also on his knees, stretched out and threw a hard, lightning-fast right hook. He immediately followed that with a left hook. Hyatt wavered limply, ready to go down. Cash cocked a fist once more, measuring his man, and then finished him with a snapping right cross that sprawled Hyatt flat on his back.

  Cash rocked back on his haunches, fighting to catch his breath. He sleeved stinging sweat from his eyes and then his hand went to his throat, first to make sure the arrowhead that hung around his neck on a leather thong was intact and undamaged and then to gingerly touch his throat where the handcuff chain had chewed the skin raw. When he pulled his hand away and looked down at it, the fingertips were smeared with blood.

  O'Shea and Bindley, the two jailers, came walking over.

  Cash turned his head and looked up at them. "What the hell's the story with you two? You afraid of gettin' scratches on those shiny billyclubs you're apparently carryin' around for decoration?"

  "Aw, come on, Cash," O'Shea protested. "The way you and him was all scrambled together, what chance did we have of trying to get a lick in at him without the risk of hitting you?" His mouth fell into a lopsided grin. "Besides, I had nary a doubt who was going to come out on top."

  "Well, I'm glad you were so damn sure of the outcome," Cash grumbled. "From the view I had, it was lookin' mighty touch-and-go there for a minute."

  O'Shea stretched out a hand and Cash grasped it, accepting the assistance in rising to his feet.

  "What's the name of our scrappy new guest?" O'Shea inquired.

  "Luther Hyatt ... Best get him downstairs and get him locked behind bars before his scrappiness kicks in again."

  O'Shea nodded. "Aye, that we'll do ... Come on, Bindley me lad. Give me a hand and we'll be after depositing this fella where he'll be able to do no more harm—either to himself or anybody else."

  Each of the jailers took a leg and unceremoniously began dragging Hyatt across the ground, in the direction of the door to the lockup.

  "Be careful with him," Cash cautioned. He leaned over to reclaim the black Stetson that had been knocked from his head during the scuffle, slapped it against his leg to knock off some of the added dust.

  "We'll do our best," O'Shea grunted. "But this is a good-sized fella we got hold of here, and you know how hard it is to maneuver inside that narrow stairwell."

  Cash displayed one of his rare smiles—as thin and cold as a wolf's. "What I meant," he said, "was be careful you don't miss hitting any of the steps with his head on the way down."

  -TWO-

  Cash took time to stable the horses and stow his trail gear before returning to the lockup for the sake of officially signing over custody of his prisoner. O'Shea had the necessary paperwork ready and he also had something else—a message for Cash.

  "Chief Penn is wanting to see you, Cash. Sent down one of the courthouse clerks with word for you to come to his office 'post haste'."

  Cash swore under his breath. "How'd he hear so quick I was even back in town?"

  "Can't say. Only know the message that was delivered."

  Cash straightened up from signing the papers. He grimaced. "Post haste, eh?"

  "The very words."

  Since it was so late in the day and he was coming off a long stretch out on the trail, a visit with Chief Marshal Devon Penn hadn't exactly been part of Cash's plans for how he aimed to spend the balance of the afternoon and evening. A hot bath, a sit-down meal, some top-shelf libation to cut the trail dust, and an energetic romp (or two) with Lenora Wilkes, his favorite soiled dove, were more the kinds of thing he'd had in mind. He'd figured checking in with his superior could wait until morning, especially since he had nothing of any significance to report, other than he'd brought back Hyatt, as he was assigned to do.

  The fact Penn had not only sent for him but had added a sense of urgency told Cash this clearly had to be something more than just a cordial welcome back to town.

  "Before you head on up there, though," O'Shea added, "you ought to take care of your throat, the way that handcuff chain tore hell out it." He gestured toward a small alcove opposite the row of heavily-barred cells. Back there was a table and a pair of straight-backed chairs, a small stove with a coffee pot perched on top of it, and a wash basin on a st
and in front of a piece of mirror hanging on the wall. "I had Bindley fetch a fresh pail of water for the basin in there and I laid out some clean towels. You go ahead and wash up, clean your wounds. Then I can have a look at 'em if you want. There's some gauze bandages in a drawer in there somewhere if we need to do some patchin'-up."

  "Obliged." Cash went into the alcove, poured some of the fresh water, stripped off his jacket and shirt then worked up a good lather getting washed. The muscles under the taut skin of his shoulders and back rippled smoothly. He was a trim, broad-shouldered six-footer and even in the mundane act of getting washed up there was an aura of barely restrained energy about him, like a compressed spring ready to be released or a coiled whip waiting to lash out.

  Once the sweat and grime were rinsed away, the abrasions on his neck were red and raw, but the skin wasn't broken very deeply and the bleeding had stopped. Cash decided no bandages were necessary. He settled instead for giving his neckerchief a quick rinse and, after squeezing it dry and tying it back in place along with the arrowhead dangling on its thong, the scrapes to his neck were barely visible.

  "Good as new," O'Shea announced when he was done. "And don't go worryin' after your newly-delivered prisoner, either. As soon as he wakes up, I'll see to it he has a chance to get cleaned up as well—I'll slosh your used wash-water on him."

  * * *

  Chief U.S. Marshal Devon Penn sat behind his desk, elbows resting on its polished top, sausage-thick fingers steepled before his round face. "We have a situation," he was explaining. "Certain incidents have occurred recently that, if added together in just the right way, could amount to a veritable powder keg primed for somebody to light the fuse."