As
promised yesterday, here are the first few pages of the 12th book in
the Cash Laramie & Gideon Miles series of noir westerns:
COFFIN FOR CASH
Nik
Morton
Prologue: Premature burial
Head
pounding as though a dozen demented blacksmiths had taken a dislike to their
anvils, Cash Laramie opened his eyes. He blinked. He couldn’t see anything,
only darkness. Complete, overwhelming darkness. His heart lurched as he realised
he was blind. He raised his right hand, intent on rubbing his eyes, but his
knuckles hit hard against something solid that was covered in silken material.
And his broad shoulders were barely able to shift. He blinked again and licked
his parched lips, tasted the metallic flavour of dried blood.
Trying again, he was able to slide
his hand to his temple and felt the dried crust of a bloody wound, which might
account for the persistent throbbing headache.
He steadied his breathing.
Don’t panic, he told himself.
He raised a leg, but his knee too
met with an obstruction after the slightest movement.
As he couldn’t see, he must rely on
his other senses.
Touch told him that he was confined
in a dark narrow place.
His ears detected no sound: absolute
silence. No birds singing, no wagons, horses or people nearby.
He sniffed the air: it was musty, a
mixture of earthiness with a hint of incense. He didn’t like what that knowledge
suggested.
Tamping down that bleak idea, he fumbled
in his vest pocket, found his box of matches. He could move both hands together
over his chest, and managed to remove a match and scratched it against the
friction board.
He blinked at the buttery brightness
of light, welcome light. Thank God! He wasn’t blind, after all. In this
confined space the smell of the burnt red phosphorus was very strong.
He was lying in a coffin lined with
white silk.
And although he wondered how he’d
gotten into this mess, he was convinced it all began no more than a couple of
days ago…
Chapter
One: Berenice
Only
this morning, as he dressed in front of the cheval glass mirror and Lenora
lounged on the bed, she had commented on his six-foot tall broad shouldered
physique. “You may be almost thirty, Cash, but you could pass for a half-dozen
years younger.”
He’d combed a hand through his dark
hair, his vibrant blue eyes lancing hers in the reflection. “Thanks, but I’m
happy to be older than twenty-four, you know.” He rubbed the stubble on his
square jaw, noting the lines around his eyes and deeply etching from his nose
to his mouth. “With age comes experience. And experience saves lives.”
“You can save my life any day,
lover,” she’d joked.
Now, he smiled fondly at the memory as
he extinguished his cheroot, pocketed it and stepped into Cheyenne’s federal
building.
He made his way to the office of
Chief US Marshal Devon Penn and knocked on the door.
“Enter!” his boss barked. So he
entered.
Penn’s bulk sat behind his imposing
desk.
Occupying one of the two Windsor
armchairs was a woman – an attractive redhead.
“Glad you made it!” Penn waved him
in and Cash shut the door behind him.
He removed his black Stetson as Penn
stood. “Cash, let me introduce you! This is Miss Berenice Rohmer – a family
friend who needs my – our – help.”
“Hello, Marshal Laramie,” Berenice
Rohmer said as he approached. She looked at him, her golden brown eyes shining
brightly, appraising. Boldly, he returned her scrutiny. She was probably in her
mid-twenties, buxom, curves pressing alluringly against the green velvet
jacket; a matching hat sat askew atop her long red hair that was done up and
tamed by jewelled pins. Beneath the skirt, her legs were crossed; she wore
black lace-up boots with a high heel. Thin pale red lips parted slightly and
then finally formed into a smile.
He returned her smile, holding out
his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
Her hand was warm, the handshake
firm. “Do call me Berenice.”
“Take a seat, Cash,” Penn said,
gesturing at the second Windsor.
As he ensconced himself in the
leathery upholstery, Cash asked, “What is the nature of the help you need, ma…
Berenice?”
She fumbled in her reticule and
withdrew a lace handkerchief, dabbed at her retroussé nose, and then glanced at
Penn, eyes pleading.
“I’ll explain, my dear,” Penn said, solicitously,
double chin wobbling. He steepled his pudgy fingers, and then eyed Cash.
“Berenice’s brother – he’s some three years her senior – well, he’s a
financier, and he has gone missing in the region of Rock Springs and Green
River.”
“What business did he have in Dakota
territory?” Cash wondered.
“You’ve heard of the new casino
there?” Penn said.
“Yes, of course. Owned by a German
count… Can’t remember his name.”
“A baron, actually. Hans Von
Kempelen.”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“The baron thought he’d establish a
town, as you do when you have money to spare, and decided the best way to lure
buyers for lots was to build a pleasure palace. And that’s what he did, calling
it the Lenore Casino. Named it after his late wife.”
Cash was struck by the similarity of
name, very similar to his Lenora’s. It must be nice, to build a place for your
loved one: though it was in memory of the baron’s wife. Happily, Lenora was
very much alive, as she ably proved only last night.
Berenice’s soft gentle voice
intruded on his pleasant warm thoughts. “It seemed attractive to my brother,
though I argued against getting involved.” She sniffed. “He withdrew cash for a
down-payment and took the train–”
“And he’s gone missing, you say,”
Cash interrupted. “When did he set out?”
“Two weeks ago.” Berenice’s eyes
glistened but she held his gaze. “I haven’t heard from him since he left. I was
becoming frantic with worry so I wired Devon, in the hope that he could
investigate.”
“Two weeks is a long time,” Cash
observed. “I don’t suppose we know if he even arrived in Rock Springs or Green
River?” Both fledgling cities were stops on the U.P. railroad.
Berenice’s lips trembled. “I do … I
do believe he must have arrived. After I pressed him, our bank manager told me
that Horace wired for an additional withdrawal of $50,000.”
Inwardly, Cash groaned. “Was it sent?”
“Yes. He supplied the agreed
confirmation of identity.”
“Do you know what that confirmation
entails?”
“No. Only Horace and the bank
manager know. I have my own, as well. It is normal practice when dealing with
large sums of money that are transmitted around the country or even abroad.”
“Isn’t technology wonderful?” Cash
mused. Not expecting an answer, he went on, “It seems to have come as a
surprise to you; is there any reason why Horace didn’t let you know about this
withdrawal?”
She shook her head and the silver
earrings glinted. “I can’t think of any reason. We’ve always been close. And of
course since our inheritance we’ve both been involved in the business finances.”
“Has Horace access to your share of
the inheritance?”
“No.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“What do you mean, Mr Laramie?”
“It’s always possible that your
brother has been coerced into withdrawing those extra funds.”
She paled, her mouth opening in shock.
“Oh, my God, no!”
“My dear,” Penn said, “it is a
possibility we must consider. There are many unscrupulous men in the world.”
“I know, but… the baron…”
Penn raised a hand. “It may have
nothing to do with the baron. Indeed, it is unwise to speculate at this stage.
Let Cash investigate and he can report back to me and I to you.”
She turned in her chair, faced Cash,
and said, her tone adamant, “No, Devon, that will not do at all. I must go with
you, Mr Laramie.”
Penn exchanged a pained look with
Cash.
“I insist,” Berenice added.
Cash stood, passing the brim of his
hat through his hands. “Have you travelled much, Berenice? Can you ride?”
“My brother went by train.”
“Yes, but Lenore Casino is quite a
ways outside Rock Springs, about a day’s ride. I’ll be taking my horse. If
you’re not up to it, I’d suggest…”
Abruptly, Berenice stood, her cheeks
flushed. “I can ride as well as any man, Marshal. In fact, I’m better than my
brother in that regard!”
“All right. Have you a horse?”
“No, but I can get one soon enough.”
She hefted her reticule. “I have the means.”
Cash appraised her from head to toe
and nodded. “You sure do, Berenice.”
Chuckling, Penn stood. “I can see
you both are going to get on nicely. You might even make a good team!”
Cash darted a glare.
“Just joking, Cash.” He added an
aside to Berenice, “The only partner he seems comfortable working with is a
fellow US marshal, Miles.”
“Comfortable,” Cash retorted. “We’ve
saved each other’s life more than once. Comfortable doesn’t cut it.”
“Maybe so. Anyway, as it happens you
might come across Miles out that way. He’s gone to Fort Bridger.”
“Surely he’s not enlisting?”
Penn grinned. “Hardly! No, he’s
picking up a suspected murderer and bringing him here for trial.”
Chapter Two: Raven
Fort
Bridger was unlike most forts Miles had been in; this one had no outer
defensive wall, relying on the number of troops stationed here. The stone
buildings had seen better days, he reckoned.
“Well, I’ve seen everything now, a black
marshal with his black prisoner!” snapped a bearded sergeant as Miles escorted
the chained detainee to the Major’s office on the opposite side of the fort’s
parade ground. “Trial’s too good for the bastard!”
“Ignore him,” said Vincent Raven,
shuffling with dignity despite the chains at his ankles.
Miles ignored Raven and spun on his
heel, rounded on the sergeant. “A man’s innocent until a court of law proves
him guilty!”
About to retort, the soldier must
have thought better of it on seeing the depth of feeling in the lawman’s brown
eyes. Muttering into his beard, he stalked off.
Miles stepped onto the boardwalk, opened
the door and the pair of them entered the building.
An adjutant rose to his feet behind
his desk. “Major Sanders is ready for you, Marshal.”
Miles removed his hat. “Keep an eye
on my prisoner, soldier.”
“Sure, sir.”
Miles rapped his knuckles on the
door labelled Camp Commander, opened
it and entered.
Major Jonathan Harrison sat behind
his desk; its surface was cluttered with papers. “You have your prisoner,
Marshal?” He gestured at a chair.
“Yes, Major.” Miles sat facing him.
“I’ll leave with him first light tomorrow.”
The bugler sounded Supper Call.
The major leaned forward. “Yet you
have him outside, I hear.”
“I’d like to remove his shackles and
share a meal with him.”
“Isn’t that unorthodox?”
“Mr Raven has given his word he
won’t escape. Besides, once he has eaten, I’ll handcuff him for the night.”
“And where will you stay tonight?”
“In the stable.”
“Why there? Your smart attire
doesn’t seem appropriate for sleeping rough.”
“I can soon shine my boots, if I
need to, sir.”
The major didn’t register the
sarcasm. “We have an adequate guardhouse; it’s been Raven’s abode since he was
brought in.”
“The livery will be safer. There
seems a lot of bad feeling about him in your fort, Major.”
“I trust you’re not suggesting that
anything fatal will befall Mr Raven.”
“Not at all, sir. But I don’t want
to break a few bigoted skulls unless I’m forced…”
Major Harrison studied Miles, and
then slowly smiled. “I take your meaning.”
“Are you aware of Raven’s past,
sir?”
“A little. He’s ex-ninth cavalry.
He’s knowledgeable about horse flesh and is now a horse-wrangler.”
“That’s right. I checked on him
before I left Cheyenne. The murder is out of character; he was a good soldier
in the ninth. He served in D Troop
under Capt. Francis Dodge and was mentioned in despatches after the end
of the Milk River siege with renegade Utes.”
“I heard about that… But the
evidence seems damning, Marshal.”
“Isn’t it a mite circumstantial?”
“I thought your remit was to
transport the prisoner for trial, not to investigate the crime.”
Miles shrugged. “Just curious, is
all.”
“Well, sadly for Raven, he was found
in the town’s post office standing over the slain postmaster, Mr Edgar Clemm. Packets
of opium were strewn about. He denies it, naturally, but the postmaster was
still warm, according to a lawyer, Rufus Wilmot, who entered moments later. Sheriff
Arnold Royster brought Raven here for protective custody, before he could be
lynched. There’s bad feeling about him in the town, as well; Mr Clemm was a
greatly liked citizen of Green River.”
****
In
the buttery light of the stable’s kerosene lantern, Miles fed a carrot to his pinto.
Raven sat on a bale of hay to his right, a wrist handcuffed to a metal rail
separating one stall from another. An empty food plate and a fork lay on
another bale.
“As I told you, I’m black, Marshal,
so I’ll get no justice.”
Miles turned. “Utter hogwash!” He
stroked his stubble. “I certainly don’t judge a man by his colour, only by what
he does with his life. Judge Benton’s the same. He makes his pronouncements
according to the evidence.”
Raven laughed mirthlessly. “Judges,
lawyers! They’re all the same!”
“You need to stop bundling folk into
straitjacket categories, Mr Raven. We’re all individuals. The sooner you learn
that, the better.”
“But the lawyer as good as says I
did it. It’s my word against his. A lawyer, for cryin’ out loud!”
“Who’re they going to believe? There’s
no definite evidence.”
“Well, I knelt by Mr Clemm – he’d
been stabbed – but I couldn’t help him, he was dead–”
“And I suppose you got blood on your
clothes while being all helpful and neighbourly?”
“I don’t like your tone, Marshal.”
“Wait till you get in court. The
prosecutor’s tone will be a lot worse.”
“Maybe so.” He pulled a pipe from
his pocket and then chewed on the stem. “Yeah, to answer your question, I’d
just got to my feet when the lawyer walked in. He let out a hue and cry and
before I could explain anything I was arrested by the sheriff and brung here
and put in the guardhouse.”
“You’re also accused of a lesser
crime, trading in opium – supplying the Chinese coal miners of Rock Springs.”
“I don’t know why they bothered with
that, untrue as it is. I’ll hang for the murder. They can’t hang me twice.”
“They’ll use it to blacken your
character, Mr Raven.”
“Yeah, right. As if I ain’t black
enough, eh?”
Miles chuckled at that and then
threw him a small pouch of Bull Durham.
“You know, Marshal, I wouldn’t touch
that stuff. I don’t even drink alcohol. I’ve seen what it can do to even the
strongest of men.” He tamped tobacco into his pipe’s bowl. “And my wife Gwendolyn
won’t think kindly if I imbibed.”
Miles was intrigued. It shouldn’t be
difficult to verify Raven’s statement of abstinence. “Where’s your wife now?”
“Bryan, watching over twenty
horses.”
“The ghost town?”
“Yeah.” Miles lit Raven’s pipe. Raven
puffed for a while, then added, “I set up a corral and we’ve been trading from
there. I was going to send a wire to a buyer in Laramie. He wanted eight
mounts.”
“Does your wife know you’ve been
arrested?”
Raven lowered his gaze to the floor.
“I doubt it. She’s probably worried sick right now. You see, we keep to
ourselves, only going into town for supplies; sometimes we go to Green River,
sometimes to Rock Springs, so we’re not that well known.”
“That’s unfortunate. I’ll think on
that. Have you made a written statement?”
“Sure. The fort commander has it.”
“Okay, I’ll take it with us. I’ve
brought a horse for you. We’ll travel by train to Green River and I’ll make
enquiries there before going on. And I’ll also make a report on anything I
learn.”
“Should be a small report, then,
Marshal.”
“Stay positive, Mr Raven.”
Chapter Three: An affray for Frey
Cash
was surprised to find Berenice waiting for him at the agreed time outside her
hotel. She was astride a handsome chestnut and wore a calico split riding
skirt, matching jacket and a white linen blouse. Her broad-brimmed hat was also
calico. He noticed that there was an 1873 Winchester snug in its boot and the
saddle was well worn, complete with bulging saddle-bags. Beside her was a
piebald loaded with her two carpetbags. “You acquired your horses and equipment
without much delay, I see, Berenice.”
She wafted a hand; her gloves were
pristine kid leather. “I won it all in a poker game last night, actually.”
He laughed. “Remind me not to risk a
game of chance with you.”
“I don’t gamble with friends – it’s
one way to lose them.”
He doffed his hat. “Glad you
consider me your friend.” He nodded at the rifle. “Can you use that?”
She jutted out her chin. “I surely
can.”
“Better than your brother, I take
it?”
Her cheeks dimpled in amusement. “We
had a competitive childhood.”
They set off down the broad main
street to the rail station. She was a good rider and gave the impression of
being quite comfortable in the saddle, and trailed the spare horse with ease.
When he commented on the amount of luggage, she replied, “It’s stuff I might
need for the journey.”
He’d explained that the distance from
Cheyenne to Rock Springs was almost three hundred miles and would have taken
them about seven days by horse. “So, it makes sense to travel by train and take
the horses.”
“Well, of course it does, Marshal,”
she responded. “It saves time as well. We need to find Horace before his trail
goes cold.”
He feared that any trail Horace
Rohmer might have left would be exceedingly cold by now.
She stood by while he led the horses
up the ramp into the freight car. To one side in a locked cage he saw crates
and baggage stacked up. About ten crates were labelled “slot machines”. He
handed over Berenice’s bags to the freight man who exchanged them for a ticket.
Once the horses were settled and tethered
with a bag of feed each, Cash descended the ramp and re-joined Berenice.
“Everything all right?” she asked.
He showed her the luggage ticket. “Bags
safely stowed and the horses are comfortable. Your chestnut was a mite nervous
at first. Probably hasn’t travelled by train before.”
“But he’s fine now, Marshal?”
Cash nodded. “If I’m going to call
you Berenice, you can call me Cash, okay?”
Her golden brown eyes shone at him. “Yes,
of course, Cash.”
“I’m glad that’s resolved.” He took
her arm and they walked along the platform.
As they boarded the first class compartment,
she raised an elegant eyebrow. “Claiming this on your expenses?”
“Expenses? I should be so lucky. I normally
wouldn’t travel first class but for your consideration, I thought it more
appropriate.”
“Don’t go out of your way on my
account, Cash.”
They settled into a double seat,
their backs to the engine, “So I can see where we’ve been,” she stated. The
seats were cramped, his broad shoulders pressing against her more delicate
frame.
A man on the other side of the aisle
gave Cash a quizzical look, but said nothing. He was short, with dark brown
eyes and thin hay-coloured hair with stray wisps over his prominent ears, a
blond moustache and thick eyebrows.
“Hey, are you a real US Marshal?” he
said, more an exclamation than a question.
“That’s what the badge says,” Cash remarked
good-humouredly.
The man wiped his palm on the chest
of his checked jacket and then leaned over, offering his hand. “Name’s Willard
Frey, purveyor of precision machines manufactured in Chicago!”
Pointing towards the rear of the
carriage, Cash said, “Those crates of slot machines are yours?”
“That’s right, Marshal!” He
persisted in exclaiming each sentence. Cash wondered how he’d express himself
if in distress. “I’m taking my wares to Baron von Kempelen’s casino!”
“Then you’re in the right carriage,”
Cash observed, indicating further down the aisle an attractive woman at a table
with three men. They were playing poker and she was dealing the cards.
Berenice chuckled and covered her
mouth with her gloved hand.
Frey laughed. “That’s Poker Jane! I
wouldn’t trust my luck against her!”
“Or I against your slot machines?”
Cash suggested.
“Touché, sir!”
Frey was still chuckling seconds
later when two swarthy men entered the carriage, guns drawn.
“This is a hold-up,” said the tall
one with a patch over one eye. “Be generous, folks!”
His bald companion, shorter with
narrow eyes, chuckled, while passing his hat round for valuables. “We have a
conscience. We only rob those in first class.”
***
How
will they get out of this predicament? If Raven is innocent, what is Miles
going to do about it? Will they find the missing Horace? Will Cash escape from
the coffin before his air gives out? What is the significance of the oval
portrait? Download the e-book (brilliant price!) to find out more!
COFFIN
FOR CASH
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