Free Miles to Little Ridge by Heath Lowrance Page A

were well-cut and tailored, and his hat was pushed back enough to show a rugged, fine-boned face. He nodded amiably as he rode past a cluster of townsfolk at the corner, kept going in the direction of the Sheriff's office.
    "I'll be a son-of-a-bitch," the Swede said.
    "What? What is it?"
    "I'll be a son-of-a-bitch!" the Swede said again, louder this time.
    "What the hell, Lars. What's got into you?"
    The Swede stood up, his fists clenched. "Gideon Miles. That's what's got into me. Goddamn Gideon Miles."
    Christian frowned. "Okay, then. Who the hell is Gideon Miles?"
    "A U.S. Marshal out of goddamn Wyoming, that's who." He turned to Christian, and his face was twisted and red with anger. "Remember, I told you about that bank job I did out in Nevada two years ago? When we had the loot and were out in the street and everything was going lickety-split?"
    "That's familiar," Christian said, even though it wasn't.
    "We come out of the bank, and standing there pretty as you please is that goddamn Marshal, Gideon Miles. He wasn't even looking for us. The black bastard just happened to be walking by, if you can figure that. But my buddy Clive, my life-long bosom pal, sees him there in the road with his stupid shiny star and he throws down on him. And that Marshal—"
    The Swede choked a little before gathering himself. "That Marshal pulled his gun and shot Clive right in the heart. Killed him, plumb outright."
    Christian looked back at the road, although the Marshal had ridden on and was no longer in sight. "I don't rightly recollect you telling me about that, Lars."
    The Swede said, "Fuck, Christian, you never listen to a word I say, do you? Makes me wonder how good a friend you really are."
    "Hey, now, there's no need for that sort of talk, Lars. I'd never—"
    "Never mind that. Where's our guns?"
    Christian said, "Lars ... we don't have no guns. You told me to hock 'em last month, remember?"
    "Goddamnit!" the Swede yelled, loud enough this time for the folks in the road to pause and look at them. He stomped around like an angry child for a full thirty seconds, cursing and screaming, swinging his fists at imaginary foes.
    Finally, he cooled down enough for Christian to say, "What did you think you were gonna do, Lars?"
    The Swede looked at him, and a dangerous light glinted in his eyes. "I'll show you what I thought I was gonna do," he said. "I'll show you right and proper."
    He picked up the ax and made a bee-line for the road.
    Christian stared after him for a moment, his face creased with worry.
    "Shit," he said, and hurried off after the Swede.

-TWO-
By Ax or By Fist
     
     
    The Sheriff's office was a loose collection of cast-off lumber at the end of the road. There was a tin awning above the open door held up by a couple of wooden poles. The place looked as if it had been slapped together by a drunk twelve-year-old.
    Gideon Miles reined up in front, dismounted, and brushed the dust off his shoulders. Through a wide crack between two pieces of wall, he could see a pair of boots propped on a sawhorse inside. As he approached the door, the boots came down with a clunk.
    A heavy-chested man with reddish-gray mutton chops met him under the tin awning. Miles put him at somewhere around forty, but booze had aged his face. The nose was swollen and red with broken capillaries, the jowls thick. Two bloodshot eyes peered out from under the brim of his hat. He wasn't wearing a gun, but the Sheriff's star glittered in the mid-morning light.
    "Something I can help you with, boy?"
    Miles ignored the 'boy' comment but noted it as strike one. He said, "U.S. Marshal. Looking for a man."
    The Sheriff straightened up a bit, eyed the badge on Mile's chest. He said, "U.S. Marshal? Ain't no such thing as a Negro U.S. Marshal."
    Miles said, "You're looking at one, Sheriff. Shall we talk inside?"
    The Sheriff frowned, forcing his jowls somewhere down around his neck. He said, "Ain't no wanted criminals in Little Ridge, I can tell you that