Bullets for a Ballot Read online

  They made good time on their fresh horses. When they were about five miles out, Cash noted several trees a few yards off from the road. He said, "We'll make camp for the night among those trees."

  "I thought you told the sheriff we were going direct to Bear Pines."

  "I changed my mind."

  Wexler didn't seem too happy about it. A short while later, he was even less happy as he hung upside down over a fire. "You can't do this," he wheezed and then coughed.

  "I'll do whatever it takes to get your confession, Wexler."

  "I can't write!"

  "Then dictate it to me."

  "Dic-what?"

  "Tell me in your own words and I'll write them down."

  Wexler coughed again. "You could make up anything. Who's to say it was true?"

  Cash laughed. "I guess Portland learned it from you, all the ways to wriggle like a crooked lawyer."

  "Yeah, well, my so-called confession ain't worth a damn unless it's got a witness." Wexler spat into the fire. "So go to hell!"

  "Not me, friend. It's you." Cash pointed at the flames. "And it seems to me you're pretty damn close already!"

  Ten minutes later, his singed hair glinting with a few red sparks, Wexler screamed, "Stop it, damn you, Marshal! I'll tell you everything!"

  Cash batted the sparks with his hand and pulled Wexler down. The vile smell brought back unpleasant memories of burned homesteads and corpses. "Tell the truth," he warned, "or I'll hoist you up there again—and I might just leave you next time."

  "I won't lie to you, Marshal, honest."

  Between sips of coffee, Wexler slowly related what happened in the dark alley adjoining the saloon.

  When Cash finished writing, he tethered Wexler to the bole of the tree from which he'd been suspended.

  Wexler said with a grin, "Still ain't worth a damn without a witness' signature."

  "That's why I'm here," Jane Maddison said. She stepped out of the dark shadows beyond the campfire, leading her chestnut horse.

  "What the hell?" Wexler swore and the blood drained from his face.

  "The marshal suggested I follow so I could witness your confession." She eyed Wexler with distaste. "Frankly, having heard it, I wish he'd boiled your brains. You don't deserve to live, Mr. Wexler."

  Without a word, Cash handed her the statement sheet and she used his pen and ink to sign as a witness. He counter-signed.

  "Now," she said, rubbing her hands together, "I'd like some hot coffee. It got a mite chilly sitting out there in the dark."

  "Sure, Miss Maddison." Cash smiled. "And in a little while, I'll see if I can arrange to warm you up once I've settled our criminal someplace else to ensure our privacy."

  "That would be greatly appreciated, Marshal."

  * * *

  Next morning at dawn, Cash led Wexler with the man's feet tied to his stirrups. "Just so you don't get any funny ideas about jumping off and running, Cash said. Jane Maddison rode alongside him.

  About an hour out from the camp, apparently on impulse, she leaned across the space between them and whispered, "You're just as exciting when you're dry, you know?"

  He kissed her, briefly, and squinted as sunlight glinted off his badge—no, it wasn't his badge ....

  A bullet hit Jane in the forehead. Her blood splashed in Cash's face and she tumbled from her horse. A second bullet smashed into Wexler's chest and he slumped in his saddle.

  Between the first and second shots, Cash snatched his Yellow Boy from its scabbard and slipped off Paint, putting the horse between himself and the shooter. He landed on his feet and scuttled behind Wexler's whickering horse.

  He glanced at Jane. Her eyes stared up into the sky, unblinking. Wexler groaned, heaving in air, swearing on blood-flecked lips, as his hands clasped his saddle horn. The man was dying, but he might still prove useful.

  Cash squatted and peered under the legs of Wexler's horse. A cluster of boulders about two hundred yards ahead probably hid the shooter.

  With patient prods, gentle whispers and coaxing, he eased the horse in the direction of the boulders while two more slugs pounded into Wexler.

  Cash rested his rifle on Wexler's saddlebows and fired four times, as fast as he could work the lever of the Yellow Boy. The bullets ricocheted off the boulders.

  He got no response. Odd.

  Jacking another shell into the chamber, he continued to use Wexler and his horse as a shield, walking the animal at an angle toward the boulders.

  The horse seemed to settle down, despite the ever-present smell of blood from its rider. Yet Cash still tasted Jane's on his mouth—a mouth that a few minutes ago had kissed her lips.

  When he got to the boulders, he clambered over and round them cautiously, sweat soaking his back. The bushwhacker had fled, leaving four empty shell casings—.40-60 caliber. The tracks of the bushwhacker's horse revealed a deformed shoe on the front left-fore-hoof.

  When Cash got back, Wexler was still slumped in the saddle, but dead. Good riddance. He used the man's lariat to secure him in that position then moved slowly over to Jane Maddison.

  He slung Jane's body over her horse and fastened her there, and reflected on some words Esther had said all those years ago: "You know, young man, you've got those good looks that'll always draw women. I reckon you'll be quite the lady-killer."

  Prophetic words, though not in the way she meant them. How many women had he known who'd been killed? Sometimes, even in his presence. He draped his blanket over her body and tied it down so she'd be covered.

  * * *

  Cash rode into Bear Pines and noted that several citizens stopped on the boardwalk to stare at his grim little caravan. He reined in at the sheriff's office and Hain rose from his rocker.

  "What the hell have you got there, Marshal?"

  "Two bodies—one's Wexler. The other's Miss Jane Maddison."

  Hain swore. "The Maddison girl? Hell, what happened?"

  "We were bushwhacked. I'll tell you about it later. Can you send one of your deputies out to the Maddison place? Jane's father needs to be told."

  "Yeah, sure." Hain turned on his heel and bellowed into the open office door, "Burt, get on out here, I've got an important errand for you!"

  A lanky deputy emerged. "What is it, Sheriff?"

  Hain explained and the deputy left for the livery.

  "Couldn't you find the other one?" Hain asked.

  "Portland?"

  "Yeah, that's the one."

  "He died resisting arrest."

  "That's a shame."

  "Yes, for them it is." Cash refrained from asking how Sheriff Hain knew Wexler and Portland. Until now, he'd appeared ignorant of their existence. Esther had only overheard their first names. "Can you arrange for the undertaker to move them to his place?"

  "Sure." Again, Hain turned and shouted. "Zeke, get on out here—you've got a date with the undertaker!"

  Zeke, portly and normally of ruddy complexion, emerged with his face pale and drawn. "Undertaker's, Sheriff?"

  While Sheriff Hain explained, Cash dismounted, tied Paint to the rail and made his way along the boardwalk, grateful for the shade provided by the roof.

  He stopped outside Peel's Emporium for the Deceased. The bodies of Ash and Tiny occupied two coffins, upended against the wall. A placard above each stated, If you know who these men are, contact U.S. Marshal Laramie at Judge McPiece's house. A definite foul miasma hovered around the corpses, along with a small cloud of black flies. He detected movement in the corner of Ash's left eye—a maggot, probably.

  He'd check with the judge in a minute. For now, he needed a drink to wash away the dust and the blood.

  Pausing outside the saloon, he noted a golden brown Chickasaw, its rear leg hipshot while it stood at the rail. Sticking out of the leather scabbard was a rifle butt—a Marlin .40-60. He stepped down and gently approached the horse. After a moment of familiarity, the animal let him lift the front left foot. The deformed shoe was unmistakable. He examined the saddle—the init
ials JJ burned into its leather flap.

  Easing his clenched jaw, Cash licked his lips and turned toward the saloon. He thirsted, but it suddenly wasn't for whiskey.

  He swung open the batwings.

  There was a general murmur from the eight customers in the room—two at the bar, and four at one table and two at another. The barkeep gave Cash a quick glance and something in Cash's face must have decided his next move: he backed toward the far end of the bar, away from his clientele.

  Moving to one side of the entrance, Cash asked in a loud voice, "Who owns the Chickasaw?"

  Silence fell.

  All eyes were on him.

  "I want to know who owns that horse."

  "That's my horse, Marshal." A handsome fair-haired man in his early twenties stood at his table, while his three companions slid their chairs back, their narrowed eyes never leaving Cash.

  He noted that they were all armed.

  "What's your name, Mister?" Cash demanded.

  "Jerry Jacobson." He gestured at a dark-haired man of similar age. "That's my brother, Matt." Matt stood up slowly, eyes narrowed, his hand hovering near the butt of his six-gun, and nodded.

  "Let's you and me go outside, Jerry, and talk," Cash said.

  "I don't think so, Marshal," Jerry said. "If you have anything to say, you can say it in front of my brother and our friends and neighbors."

  Cash shrugged. "It's all the same to me, son."

  "I ain't your son, Marshal."

  Ignoring this comment, Cash said, "Have you loaned out your horse today?"

  Jerry Jacobson grinned. "Loaned out?" He laughed. "No way!"

  His brother and the others laughed, briefly.

  "In which case, I'm arresting you for the murder of Jack Wexler and Jane Maddison."

  "Jane Maddison?" Matt lifted a hand, grabbed his brother's arm. "You never said anything about—"

  "Shut it, Matt!" Jerry snarled.

  "But ..."

  Jerry shrugged off his brother's hand and went for his pistol.

  Cash cleared leather and fired.

  His gun pointing at the floorboards, Jerry backed into the table and stared at his bloody belly.

  "Jerry!" Matt's fingers closed on his gun.

  "Matt, don't do it!" Cash warned, pointing the smoking barrel of his Colt at the man.

  His face crumpled in concern, Matt left his six-gun alone and rushed over to his brother. "You bastard, you've killed him!"

  Cash shook his head. "He isn't dead yet, though he deserves to be." He turned to one of the white-faced men at their table. "Go get the doctor. He might survive a gut shot, he might not ... Depends on how good your doc is."

  Tears streamed down Matt's cheeks. "Damn you, you don't care, do you?"

  "Your brother killed two people this morning." Cash shrugged. "He didn't much care about snuffing out their lives. Why should I worry about his?"

  "Bastard!"

  "Throw names all you want. But if you're tempted to throw lead, I'd advise against it."

  Glaring, Matt snarled, "You've just pulled down a whole mountain of trouble on yourself, Marshal."

  Cash heard footsteps outside and sidled farther along the wall so he could cover everyone in the room as well as the entrance.

  Sheriff Hain rushed in, his six-gun drawn, and quickly absorbed what had happened and then glanced at Cash. He holstered his weapon and lifted his hat, scratched his head. "Marshal, I reckon you best leave town. The Jacobson ranch hands are a tough bunch, and loyal."

  "The fight was fair," Cash said.

  "That's true, Sheriff," said the barkeep. "I was a witness."

  Hain scowled at the bartender and strode over to the Jacobson brothers. He knelt on one knee beside Jerry.

  "Alex has gone for the doc, Sheriff," Matt mumbled.

  Hain shook his head and eyed Cash. "Jacobson won't let you get away with this, even if it was a fair fight."

  "I'll stay, Sheriff. Grateful for your concern, though." Cash carefully moved to the entrance, gun in hand. He backed through the batwings and only then holstered his weapon after he'd turned the corner

  * * *

  Judge Virgil McPiece opened the door as Cash mounted the steps to the porch. "Come in, I heard you were back in town." He thumbed at the saloon. "Sounds like you've been busy."

  "I just gut shot Jerry Jacobson," Cash said as he entered and removed his hat.

  Judge McPiece shut the door and led him along a short hall into a parlor. "That isn't good news. I suppose he had it coming?"

  Cash nodded.

  "Well, that won't cut any ice with Jacobson. He'll send his whole ranch after you, I reckon."

  "If he does, he'll be breaking the law."

  "Law's fragile enough already round here, Cash Laramie. It won't take much to break it for good."

  "Maybe. That's not why I called on you, anyway. I wondered if anyone turned up to identify the two corpses on display."

  The judge grinned. "Two people sure did—independently, I might add."

  "And?"

  "One of them was Ma Bartleby, the owner of the cathouse. Ash Devlin and Tiny Pucket frequented her place as customers a couple of times." He rooted inside a writing desk drawer and produced a telegram. "I wired Cheyenne and got a quick response—both are wanted in Ohio for bank robbery, rape and murder ..."

  "Why am I not surprised? You said two people."

  "I did, didn't I? Our estimable printer Mr. Eldridge saw Tiny Pucket—he wasn't difficult to miss—entering the back door of the mayor's home the day before the attack on Mrs. Tolliver. Of course, he never thought anything about it, at the time."

  "Will Eldridge testify?"

  "I think so."

  "Keep this quiet for now—if for no other reason than to protect Eldridge."

  "I can do that. Until there's a prosecution case against our mayor, I don't have to divulge all."

  Cash pulled out a sheet from his vest. "This is Wexler's confession—witnessed by Jane Maddison."

  The judge quickly scanned the writing then looked up sharply. "This is pretty damning, Cash. Wexler makes no bones about it, the mayor hired him to kill Dean Tolliver!"

  "I know. Unfortunately, both Wexler and the witness to his confession are dead."

  Slumping down in his chair, the judge let out a sigh of exasperation. "Damn ... If it can be proved that Miss Maddison's signature is genuine, I believe it will still stand as evidence—damning evidence."

  "That's what I wanted to hear, Judge."

  "There's no way we can build a case against Brett Nolan before the election."

  "But if you started proceedings, it's bound to harm his chances, isn't it?"

  "Yes, I guess it would, at that. Before you turned up, I thought the mayoral election would be heated. Now, I fear it's going to hit the boiling point. God knows, I've tried to defuse the situation, but there are too many hotheads about." He fingered his chin. "And I'll be seeing some of them at my bench, I warrant, before the two weeks are out."

  "Well, either you or the undertaker," Cash replied.

  -SIX-

  A Lawyer's Word

  "It isn't often we get a marshal gracing my parlor," Ma Bartleby said, ushering Cash into the plush room. The place smelled of excess perfume, to hide the sweat and other odors the clients brought with them. He'd visited enough similar establishments in his time.

  "I wanted to confirm that you'd appear as a witness concerning those two miscreants, Ash Devlin and Tiny Pucket," he said, removing his hat.

  "And here I was thinking you fancied riding one of my girls!" She laughed and it came out a bit like the bray of a jackass. Her looks compensated, however, if you were partial to women with large breasts and purple eyes. As she laughed, her chest wobbled. And her eyes were alight with mischief and seemed to convey that she'd seen it all and was wise to every con known to man.

  "I wouldn't say no, Mrs. Bartleby," he said, "once my business is concluded."

  "That's what I like to hear. A man who knows h
is own mind! And call me Ma, everybody I like does."

  "So, Mrs. ... Ma, will you vouch for the presence of Devlin and Pucket on the days specified?"

  She nodded. "Oh, yes." She leaned close, her scent invading his nostrils so that he had to fight off an urge to sneeze. "It pleasured me a great deal to see those two bastards displayed outside Mr. Peel's emporium. They didn't treat my girls kindly, not at all!"

  "Thanks, Ma."

  "Now then," she said, rubbing her hands together, "who shall I honor you with?"

  Cash grinned. "I leave it in your hands."

  At that, she guffawed. "I think not—let's put it in Rachel's. She's a lovely girl!"

  Rachel was everything that Ma Bartleby promised—and more. She was bright and accomplished. Cash found that he could prolong his performance if he let his mind wander. It was tricky and didn't always work, but usually he was able to wallow in the pleasure and pace himself at the same time. In one of these interludes, he wondered about Esther and her crusade for women's right to vote. For sixteen years she'd had that particular bit between her teeth and now she was risking all—her life and even her son's.

  He shook off thoughts about Danny's provenance and while he made love for the second time that night he thought about Lenora back in Cheyenne. Lenora was a puzzle for Esther, he reckoned. Lenora wasn't one of those whores in servitude; she'd actually chosen the profession. He'd asked her about that once, and she'd replied, "I get to meet a lot of real nice men." Then she'd shrugged. "And a lot of real bastards, as well. But the nice ones tend to make up for them. Otherwise, I wouldn't do it." He was ambivalent about her career choice. Sometimes, he felt jealous, yet at other times he dismissed it as "just a job."

  And he had to admit that he wasn't faithful to Lenora in the physical sense—though his heart always seemed to belong to her, no matter what other woman he poked.

  Right now, he lay back with a half-smoked cheroot, while Rachel dragged out smoke from her quirly. And he wondered how Lenora would vote, if she'd been given the chance.

  He grinned, gripping the cigar between his teeth. Maybe a woman mayor would clamp down on loose living and whoring ...?

  "What's so funny, Marshal?" Rachel asked, stubbing out her cigarette in a bedside ashtray.