Miles gave him a minute to get it out of his system. Finally the Sheriff said, "He lives with his daughter over by Ridge Creek. He's a farmer, has been for over three years."
Miles nodded. "Good enough. Now what I need from you are two or three of your deputies. I'll be riding up there in about—"
"No deputies. I ain't got any."
"Okay, then. You and me."
The Sheriff shook his head. "No, not a chance. I don't care if you're the President of these here United States. I ain't going up there to bother Edward Gandy. You want him, you're on your own."
Miles laughed. "So be it. I'm a little doubtful you'd be much help anyway."
The Sheriff said, "I don't know who you think you are, boy, but—"
Miles kicked out at the sawhorse, sending it skittering across the room. The Sheriff's boots dropped to the floor and he nearly pitched over face-forward. He caught himself on the chair, and looked at Miles with a face gone slack and stupid with surprise.
Miles said, "The name's not 'boy', Sheriff. It's Gideon Miles. U.S. Marshal Gideon Miles. I'd advise you to remember that."
He turned and walked out of the office.
* * *
Under the awning, Miles paused and pulled out his pipe. He stuffed some tobacco in the bowl, lit up, and sucked smoke. Pipe clenched between his teeth, he let his gaze drift up the road, to the relative hustle and bustle around the store fronts and businesses. It wasn't Cheyenne, not by a long shot, but it was more civilization than he'd seen in over a week on the trail.
Not far up, he spotted a livery stable. Smoking, he took the grullo's reins and started to walk it over.
From his left, someone shouted, "Die, you black son-of-a-bitch!" and Miles saw a big, shirtless man hefting an ax coming at him.
He didn't pause to ponder on the unexpected nature of it. Miles' right hand dropped to the Colt in his holster, but he knew instantly that the ax-wielding man was too close. Roaring, the stranger swung the ax, and Miles stepped back and dropped to one knee.
The ax-blade swooped so close Miles felt the breeze of it along his jaw. From his low position, Miles jabbed with a sharp right and then a left into the big man's mid-section. Neither punch carried much power, but they were enough to cause the stranger to grunt and lose his footing. He got pulled along, stumbling, with the trajectory of his ax.
Miles was up in a heartbeat. The attacker found himself facing away from his target, and Miles used the momentary advantage to deliver a swift kick to the man's ass. The man stumbled a few steps forward but didn't fall.
Again, Miles hand went to his gun, but to the right a blur of motion caught his attention a split-second before the full weight of another attacker barreled into him. The Colt was knocked out of his hand.
This second man was much smaller, a wiry little bundle of sinew. Not very strong, either—even at full tilt he wasn't able to knock Miles down.
Miles locked a grip around his neck—an old Indian fighting technique his friend and partner Cash Laramie had taught him—and exerted enough pressure to make the smaller man fall to his knees. Once he was there, Miles punched him in the nose. There was a satisfying crack of cartilage, blood blossoming across the man's face, and then the only thing holding him up was Miles.
Miles stepped back, let the man fall, just as the one with the ax got his bearings again. "You dirty bastard!" the man screamed. "You killed my buddy Clive! My life-long bosom pal! You're gonna die!"
And he rushed at Miles, ax raised high.
The name Clive nudged some memory cells in Miles' head—not enough to picture him, but enough to at least realize why this big lunatic was attacking him. It wasn't the first time Miles had had to deal with a revenge-crazed outlaw.
Miles ducked under the ax, and the blade smashed into one of the flimsy poles holding up the tin awning. The whole thing came crashing down on both of them.
The attacker got the worst of it. While a few pieces of tin bounced off Miles' hat, the edge of the awning caught the big man on the temple, leaving a nasty gash that flooded blood into his eyes.
Miles flicked his right wrist, and a thin blade popped out from his sleeve—it was a spring-loaded mechanism he always wore, as much a part of his wardrobe as a tie or watch-chain. He seldom had call to use it. Now was one of those times.
While the big man was blinded, Miles stepped in, slashed along the man's bare chest. He was deliberately avoiding a killing move, although he had every call to use lethal force by now. He abhorred killing, except in the most unavoidable circumstances.
The big man howled in pain and dropped the ax. Blood poured from the gash along his chest and from his temple.
The Sheriff chose that moment to come out of his office. "What the hell is going on out here?"
Miles glanced at him, and the big man took the opportunity to bolt. Miles looked around, spotted his gun, bent to pick it up. The Sheriff said again, "What the hell is going on, goddamnit?" and by the time Miles looked again the attacker was gone, vanishing around the corner of the restaurant and down an alley.
The smaller man was gone, too.
"Ya'll busted my awning up!" the Sheriff whined. "It took me two days to build that!"
Miles sighed, holstered his gun. At some point, he'd lost his pipe. He found it amidst all the broken and jagged tin, picked it up and dusted it off. He stuck it, unlit, in his mouth.
"Who were those men?"
The Sheriff's face went neutral and stupid again. He said, "Well, I don't rightly—"
"Who were they, Sheriff?"
The Sheriff scowled. "Couple of new fellas in town. They work over at the livery stable. The big one's called the Swede. The little one is ... um ... Christopher, or Christian, or some such. Now about my roof—"
"Bill the livery stable."
"Goddamnit, boy—"
Miles looked at him, dark eyes burning.
The Sheriff said, "I mean, uh, Mr. Miles, sir. I just ... well, never mind."
Miles took the grullo's reins and headed for the stable. He didn't expect that his attackers would be there, but the horse needed tending to anyway.
He was particularly partial to the horse, Smoke, and aimed to see that the animal's needs were met before his own. The Swede and Christopher or Christian weren't there, of course. After making sure Smoke was fed and well-tended, Miles stepped back out into the road.
He remembered Clive now. One didn't come across too many fellows by that name. It had to be Clive Ross. It had been about two years earlier, and Miles was in Reno with his partner Cash, chasing after a murderer by the name of Blackfoot Joe Hardy. The killer had slaughtered ten men and four women over a three-month period, and Cash had eventually caught up to him.
But that day in Reno, Miles had just left his hotel room and was heading for the barber's shop when a small band of robbers came pouring out of the bank, guns blazing. One of them—Clive Ross—had drawn on Miles, and Miles had shot him dead.
The bank robbers had fled, but over the following year each one of them had been captured or killed. Except for—
Miles stopped in mid-stride. Except for one, Lars Henderson. The Swede.
Miles chuckled to himself. Funny how fate threw you a bone every now and again. He decided that, once he had Gandy in custody, he would send a telegram to Cash and ask him to come out to help him search for the Swede and his new accomplice.
But first things first. Hunger gnawed at him. Just on the other side of the road, there was a restaurant with the legend
Garden of Eden Fine Eats
above the door. Miles headed for it.
There were only six patrons in the place, but they all looked up from their meals when Miles came in. A fat man eating a bowl of soup dropped his spoon. It clattered against his bowl and fell to the floor, ridiculously loud in the sudden silence.
Miles had experienced the same sort or reaction before, many times, but it had always been in saloons, with hard men drinking and music playing and cigar smoke hanging in the air. He'd never seen it happen in a regular eating establishment, with table cloths and normal folks. It almost struck him as funny. Almost.
He stepped in, and a man in a shabby, food-stained tuxedo scurried up to him. "We don't serve Negros or Indians here," he said, bending his head at a sign in the door.
"You do now," Miles said.
He walked past the man, took a seat at a table in the far corner so he could keep an eye on the door. The man watched him, clearly unable to decide what to do. The fat man who'd dropped his spoon huffed, said, "Unacceptable," and got up to leave. At the door, he stopped long enough to glare at Miles over his shoulder.
Miles smiled at him, but the smile was forced.
The maître de stalked over and said, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"I'll have a bowl of chili," Miles said. "And a beer."
"I'm not going to tell you again, mister—"
"No," Miles said, "you're not." He tapped the badge on his chest. "If you don't serve Negros or Indians, how do you feel about U.S. Marshals?"
"U.S. Marshals? Well, I—"
"Bowl of chili. Beer." Miles looked away from him.
The maître de left to get his order. The other patrons went back to their meals, and Miles steeled himself, willed the anger to wash over him and away, off to someplace else where it couldn't cause any harm.
After a couple of minutes, a very young, very pretty girl with dirty blonde hair came to the table with his food. She actually smiled at him as she set the bowl of chili and the mug of beer in front of him, but Miles didn't smile back. He hardly looked at her.
He started eating, and the girl said, "I hope you don't judge all of us by the actions of a few. We ain't all ignorant, mister."
Between mouthfuls, Miles said, "I don't judge anybody. That's not my job."
"Those are wise words, mister. Only the Lord can judge us. And the Lord don't care nothin' about the color of a man's skin."
He looked up at her. She just stood there, smiling, and he had no idea how to respond. He took up his mug and drank.
"But we never had no Negro in here before," she said. "Least of all, no U.S. Marshal Negro."
Miles said, "Will wonders never cease?"
"What brings you to Little Ridge, if'n you don't mind me asking?"
He didn't really feel up to a pleasant meal-time conversation, but the girl seemed so friendly and eager to please he couldn't bring himself to be rude to her. He said, "I'm looking for a wanted criminal by the name of Edward Gandy. You know him?"
She stiffened, and a sharp little exhale of alarm huffed out of her. "Edward?" she asked. "What ... what you want with Edward?"
"I just told you, miss. You know him, I take it?"
"Edward ain't no criminal, mister. You must've made some kind of mistake."
"That's what your Sheriff was telling me. But there's no mistake."
The other patrons were watching them, and the girl flushed red with embarrassment. "Why, Edward Gandy is as fine a man as ever walked. He's ... he's kind and courteous and carries himself like a true gentleman. Surely you have the wrong man, mister Marshal."
Miles said, "I don't know anything about Mr. Gandy. He's been accused, and I'm here to take him in to stand trial."
"For what, pray tell?"
"Three different counts of robbery, in two states."
She said, "Never!" and her voice echoed through the restaurant. She flushed deeper, trying to ignore the stares. In a softer voice, she said, "Never, I tell you. Edward ain't no thief. Anyone who says different is a liar, plain and simple."
"That may be," Miles said. "A jury of his peers will make that decision, not me, and not you."
The woman hesitated a moment, and then pulled out a chair and sat next to him. The patrons didn't like that. Most of them stopped eating and stared at them.
Way too close, she said, "Listen, mister. Edward Gandy is a decent man, unlike most in this God-forsaken town. He works hard out at his farm. His wife ... well, she died about a year ago from the TB, and ever since he's been alone. He's got a nine-year-old girl, Clemmy, that he's raising up all by hisself. He's honest and good."
Miles frowned. "If you don't mind me saying, miss, you sound inordinately fond of the man."
She reddened again, but straightened her back and said, "Mr. Gandy and I are, well ... we're a-courting, if you must know. He comes to town twice a week, and we spend time together, ever since poor Mrs. Gandy passed. And in all that time, Edward has never done a single thing that would be questionable for a gentleman."
"I don't doubt he's a gentleman. He's not wanted for being rude, miss. He's wanted for armed robbery."
She stood up, sudden anger tightening her pretty face. "You don't know nothing. You think that tin badge on your chest makes you smart. But you ain't smart. I don't care nothing about the color of your skin, but I'll tell you this, mister Marshal. If I weren't a good Christian lady, I'd have a few choice words for you."
She stormed away from him, and Miles watched her go. He glanced around at the patrons, who withered under his gaze and went back to their meals.
Sighing, he picked up his spoon, pushed it around in the chili, but didn't eat any more. He'd lost his appetite.
"Well," Christian said, "that didn't go so good."
"Shut up," the Swede said.
They were in the little rented hovel they shared behind the post office. Roughly six feet square, there was barely room for the two bunks and the packing crate they kept all their belongings in. Christian had poured whiskey over the gash across the Swede's wide chest and was now trying to wrap an old linen around the wound. He'd already tended to the cut on the Swede's temple.
The Swede's muscled chest heaved with pain, and sweat dripped down his torso. Christian's mouth felt dry, and he had that odd sensation in his stomach again whenever he looked at his friend. He willed it down, said, "You prob'ly shouldn't have just come at him with an ax like that, is what I'm thinking."