by Mark Mitten
Pretending to be a newspaperman was easy, Vincent realized. All you have to do is scribble down some notes and people think they’ll be in the papers. He glanced up and down the street. No one was around, and the deputy was too busy with the plate of food to even notice the effort Vincent was putting in, so he tucked the pencil in his vest and put away the notebook. He was just pretending to write things down, anyway.
“Let me help with that door.”
He held the courthouse door open. Griff was being careful with the soupy plate because he didn’t want to spill on himself. But Griff was also being careful, because he did not want hot chili slopping onto the nice hardwood floors. The courthouse clerk, the elderly — and quarrelsome — Betty Anne Hartworst would go into conniptions if she saw chili spilled on her floors.
“That is quite a feat. News worthy.”
“Right place at the right time. Sheriff’s out with Ben Leavick right now, tracking the ones that peeled off.”
“Any official prognostications I might write up?”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
“Criminal predictions?”
“Aw, they could be halfway to Steamboat Springs by now,” Griff told him. “You might be interested to know they’ve got a printing press up there. Started their own paper, year before last — The Steamboat Pilot.”
“That so?”
“Yessir,” Griff said, arching his eyebrow. “How’d that one get by you? Being a newspaperman yourself, Mr. Furlong. Kind of ironic.”
Vincent shrugged.
“Life is full of ironies, Mr. Allen.”
Chapter 6
Beaver Creek
Emmanuel took a branch and stirred the embers around. Gray smoke and ash swirled up and LG stepped back to avoid it, but Casey stood where he was and just closed his eyes. The warm blast of air felt good, and he didn’t seem to mind that ash got in his coffee. It had enough coffee grounds in it as it was. He had to drink through his teeth to strain it. Casey figured that he could strain ash along with the grounds, one just as easy as the other.
Crickets were chirping by the creek even though the clouds were thick overhead and the sun had only made a brief appearance. The cookfire was a Godsend given the cold front that was rolling in and they all huddled close to the flames.
“Someone comin’ in,” Emmanuel said and pointed to the far end of the valley.
In the distance, they were able to keep an eye on Edwin circling the cattle. Just then, another rider came out of the trees and headed his way. The two of them met up and stopped to chat for a moment.
“I’d say that is Til,” Casey said, straining to see. “Wonder why he’s back at the ranch. Only been two days now.”
“Coming back from a 2-days’ drunk,” LG guessed, in his wry way.
Emmanuel chuckled softly, shaking his head. LG sure had a brazen sense of humor. Til was not the drinking type, much less the kind to ride in to camp drunk at six in the morning. Emmanuel chuckled again. That LG sure was quick to poke fun at a man. Even the boss!
They watched Til ride across the snowy valley floor, head up to the cookfire, and draw rein. Steam was coming off his horse’s neck and sides.
“Morning, boys. Cold enough for you?”
“Howdy, Til,” said Casey.
“Cold enough,” LG affirmed.
“Coffee, Mistuh Blancett?” Emmanuel asked.
“Appreciated.”
Til stepped out of the saddle, rowels jingling as his boots touched down. He was wearing a heavy white calfskin coat with a pile collar. It was a warm coat, and he was glad to have it in weather like this. He bought it one winter down at a stock show in Denver one January. Cost him forty bucks, but it was an investment. He let the reins slip out of his hand, ground-tying the big bay while Emmanuel poured him some coffee.
“What’s the word, Til?” LG asked him. “It’s a mite early to be riding in.”
“And a mite briskly,” Til agreed.
He took a quick gulp from the tin cup and immediately lolled his mouthful onto the ground.
“Yow, damn it!”
“Watch you’self, suh,” Emmanuel warned him. “May be hot.”
“Well by jove, it surely is,” Til said in a genuine tone. Breathing heavily, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
LG turned on the cook with a dramatic flair and stared hard at him.
“You should try saying that afore a man scalds his’self.”
“Careful, LG,” Til warned him. “Crossing a cook be as risky as braiding a mule’s tail.”
LG gave him a sanguine smile.
“I’ve bull-dogged brahmas and I’ve broke mustangs… reckon I can handle this mossy horned steer.”
Without warning LG gave a sharp slap to the bottom of Emmanuel’s tin cup sending steaming coffee flying high. It spattered into the flames and the fire hissed. But Emmanuel only broke into another wide grin. LG turned back to Til and picked up the conversation where they had left off.
“Thought you were in Denver till the first week of May.”
“Heard some news you boys need to know. Down at the stockyards last evening. Got to talking with Ab Blocker.”
Emmanuel perked up at the name.
“Rode with ‘im in ’77. Good trail boss, one of the best.”
“Last night? Gee, you musta rode straight through, then,” Casey said with surprise.
“I did. The man’s already bringing his first beef herd up from Texas, driving to Wyoming. Twenty-five hundred head.”
Til paused and blew hard across his coffee. He tried a cautious sip before continuing his story.
“Word is this past winter was hard…and not just on us. Worse up north, from what Blocker says. Much worse. Every cattle range in Montana was hit hard. They’re talking 75% losses.”
“Seventy-five percent?” LG said and whistled. “That is hard to imagine.”
“Same story in Dakota and Wyoming. Worst winter ever to hit them northern ranges.”
Casey shook his head in disbelief.
“Unheard of,” he said under his breath.
“Seems January was the worst,” Til continued. “Forty-five below zero, sixteen inches of snow, blizzard conditions. Cattle even froze to death standing up…they say many of ‘em were found bunched up against the fence-lines, dying in piles.”
“Now that is why I loathe barbed wire,” LG stated. “On open range cattle can drift with the wind, find some shelter. Good Lord.”
The sunlight broke through the clouds and washed over the cow camp. The men blinked in the brightness as they absorbed what Til was saying.
“Ab tells me with the beef price down so damn low, musta been hundreds and thousands of cattle being kept up there. Holding out for a better price — now they’re all in a bind. Whole market is in a bind.”
“What can you do? When the price of a steer barely covers your freight charge?” Casey said in a sober tone. “You can’t blame ‘em.”
Til knelt down. He picked up a rag hanging on the end of the potrack. Using it as a buffer, he pinched the lid on the nearest Dutch oven and raised it. Several biscuits were still left, and he pulled one out.
The crew all stared into the flames, lost in thought but soaking up the moment of sunshine. They knew it would not last long with the sky looking like it was.
“Soon as can be,” Til stated. “Market’s gonna need beef.”
“And we’re moving on it,” he added.
Looking beyond the fire, LG silently quantified the herd in the distance. They were grazing peacefully. Til chewed thoughtfully. The biscuit was warm and tasted good after a long ride through the mountains at night. He glanced over at his horse. Bit Ear was still standing quietly. Til knew the bay was just as hungry and figured he better cut him loose in the corral soon. Get him some grain and hay first.
“Sooner we get them to market, better off we’ll be,” Til mentioned. “Crisis like this, we’re in an ideal position to sell. Make some seed money — expand the operati
on.”
Casey shook his head hesitantly.
“Boy, not even summer yet.”
Til nodded at that. The season had indeed only just begun, but the fact was, time was getting away from them.
“Just can’t wait for November. Ship all of them by rail back up to our Wyoming range for a month. We’ll leave the yearlings there, sell the beeves.”
“Seems like we just drove them all up here yesterday,” Casey said.
“I know it. But we’re just too far from the market up here. Need to know what’s going on, be ready to sell when the short-iron is hot.”
LG knelt down and took the last biscuit out of the oven.
“We’ll bring the herd down Spring Gulch to Lefthand Canyon, and then on down to the foothills along that stage road,” LG said. “We’re a slow seven days’ drive outta Denver as it stands. Can start the roundup right away.”
“First thing in the morning,” Til instructed. “LG, get the tack and the irons sorted today. Emmanuel, if you would get the chuck wagon loaded, I’ve already hired on a few more cowhands. They should be riding in sometime this evening.”
Chapter 7
Grand Lake
The floor in the courthouse was dirty, as it was. Betty Anne Hartworst, the quarrelsome clerk, swept it out every day — except on the weekends like this. When Emerson and Griff brought Bill in the day before, muddy from the trail, they tracked it all in. In addition to being elderly and quarrelsome, Betty Anne was a behemoth rotund lady with white hair and a snippety tongue. Even without any spilled chili on those hardwood floors, Griff knew the woman was going to pitch a fit when she saw the mud. But that was part of her job, and Griff had other chores to do. He couldn’t be sweeping out the courthouse every time he tracked in mud.
Griff led Vincent inside past the reception desk.
“Hoping for anything from this prisoner,” Griff warned him, “is hoping for plenty. He ain’t been speaking with me.”
“It is my experience that men of this frame often seek the posterity of namesake.”
“Good luck,” Griff told him.
He set the tin plate on the big oak desk. It was getting too hot to hold. His thumb came out covered in chili, so he licked it off. It was spicy, and Griff suspected it was made with venison. Otto’s celestial tended to use a lot of deer and elk. Sometimes they had moose. There were moose in the area. He found a cool spot again, picked it back up, and then led Vincent down the dim corridor. The hallway was lined with photographs of judges, Supreme Court justices, and senators. They all looked solemn, and Vincent thought it was amazing what a little lying could accomplish. Maybe he should have been a play-actor, a thespian. He thought that he was doing pretty good at it, which was not a real surprise since he did enjoy Shakespeare. Vincent saw a production of King Lear in Creede once and enjoyed it thoroughly — even though he never discussed the event with Bill at the time, or any of the boys for that matter. Bill would have seen it as a weakness that he even went in the theatre in the first place. Not now, of course. His play-acting was serving a useful purpose, one that Bill was certainly profiting from.
“It is possible he will speak,” Vincent suggested to Griff. “If nothing else than to rant self-accolades. Seen it before.”
Griff didn’t acknowledge the comment. It was possible but unlikely. They came out of the hallway into the backroom where the jail cell was. With the cold front and the low clouds, the room with the high tiny window was rather gloomy.
“Breakfast time,” Griff announced.
Bill was lying on a cot huddled in his blanket, and he didn’t seem to notice or care. Griff suspected the man was still angry over being caught, being thumped on the head, and being tied to a mule. Not to mention they lost his hat on the trail somewhere — which was an insult to any man.
“Got some chuck,” Griff said again. He stepped up to the cell door and stared down at the man sternly.
“What’re you serving?” Bill finally asked in a lazy voice.
“What it is don’t matter…ain’t a buffet.”
There was a tray slot in the otherwise vertical bars. Griff stuck the plate through and held it expectantly, but Bill did not make a move or even bother looking up. That was irritating.
“Got two seconds, then you’re eating off the floor.”
With a big sigh, Bill got to his feet and stared dully at Griff. Then he noticed Vincent. He raised his eyebrows and brightened noticeably.
“Paper’s come along,” Griff told him. “Wants to hear tell — all about your zest and truculence.”
Bill strolled across the jail cell, stepping up close and faced Griff through the bars. Griff did not care for his look.
“Mebbe you’ll make the papers.”
Bill reached out for the plate.
“I’ll draw the headlines in this pissy little town.”
Feigning for the plate, Bill grabbed onto Griff’s wrist instead. Griff dropped the plate, and chili and applesauce fell on the floor as he jerked around. But Bill had a tight grip and would not let go.
Vincent, the faux newspaperman, came up from behind and rammed his weight hard into Griff’s back, pinning him against the bars.
“Dammit!” Griff cried out in surprise.
Bill pulled hard on the deputy’s arm to keep him in place. Vincent grabbed Griff’s hair and began smashing his head against the cell. The bars rang loudly with each percussive hit. Griff’s brow split open, his nose made a loud crack and blood poured out.
“Got you, you rube!” Bill shouted.
But the Deputy Sheriff of Grand County was no longer conscious and sagged. Vincent relaxed his grip and stepped back. Bill let go of Griff’s wrist and let him drop heavily onto the floor. Blood continued to ooze from his nose and brow.
“Keys.”
“Right here,” Vincent replied, digging into Griff’s vest pocket. He quickly opened up the lock and swung the door open. The two men looked at each other quietly for a moment.
“Mr. Judas Furlong, I presume,” Bill said with exaggerated politeness.
“Mr. Bill Ewing,” he answered, equally as cordial. “That’ll cost you thirty pieces.”
“Bleeding a little there,” Bill noted.
Vincent followed Bill’s eyes down to his sleeve. There was a red seep coming through the fabric.
“Now I have to dress that again,” Vincent complained bitterly. He turned and kicked Griff in the side. But of course, Griff was not aware of anything and did not feel it.
“Pecker shot me,” Vincent added and spat on Griff. Back in Kinsey City, after Emerson Greer had waylaid Bill, Vincent had managed to dash through the thick dynamite smoke and make for the woods — but Griff took a quick shot and caught him in the forearm, though it did not slow him down as he ran.
“Let’s get him inside,” said Bill.
However, Vincent knelt down, took Griff’s gun from its holster and pressed the barrel against the back of the deputy’s head.
“One shot,” Bill warned, gritting his teeth. “And this whole town’s upon us.”
But Vincent did not move. He kept the gun pressed against Griff’s skull and tapped his finger on the trigger guard. Vincent really wanted to shoot him. Not only to return the favor but to make him pay for ruining his good clothes. Blood did not come out easy once it set and Vincent went to great lengths to make sure he was dressed properly every day. He had barely gotten it out the first time and even hand-stitched the sleeve with a needle and thread. That was no easy feat for someone riding the trail, dodging the law — and there was clearly no chance of finding a launderer in this town under these circumstances. Vincent had no intention of looking unkempt like Granger or the Mexicans, or most of the boys for that matter. He preferred to maintain a sense of nobility about his appearance. It set him apart from the common criminal, and in his mind he was better than the others — better at robbing, killing, and better at getting away with it. A blood-stained sleeve made him feel like he was no longer set apart and that was somethi
ng he could not abide.
“As it stands, they got no impetus besides a bunged up deputy,” Bill reasoned. He kept his voice low as he spoke. He was hoping Vincent would listen to good sense and stay calm. All they had to do was get out of town without causing a ruckus.
Vincent relaxed suddenly and tucked the gun into his belt.
“Fine.”
Working together, Bill and Vincent dragged Griff into the cell and dumped him on the floor face down in the chili and applesauce.
Chapter 8
Beaver Creek
When his arms locked around its horns, the steer bawled and writhed but Casey twisted and dropped his body weight and they both came down as one.
Casey held the steer down on its side. Behind him, LG rode past him on his sorrel. The sorrel was LG’s good cutting horse. He had the rope dallied around the saddle horn. It ran out taut behind him to a resigned calf, which was being dragged along by its hind legs.
“Hook ‘em cow!” LG called down to it. Casey ignored the taunt. He was waiting for Edwin to apply the iron and while he waited, he glanced up at LG and shook his head.
The herd was a continual noise of lowing and bellowing. The sky had closed in over the sun again. Dark clouds had bunched up over the peaks to the west and rolled out overhead as far as anyone could see.
One of the new cowhands, Steve McGonkin, bent down and grabbed onto the steer’s hind leg. With a grunt he pulled out it straight for a clean brand.
“Hold him tight, Steve.”
Pulling on his thick leather gloves, Edwin took one of the irons from the fire. He hustled over to the animal and applied it quickly. The hide sizzled and blackened with the heat and smoke twisted up into the air. It read: B + C. The smell of burning hair was strong.
“Alright now, take ‘em off,” Casey instructed.
Letting go of the steer’s leg, Steve picked up a handsaw lying near the fire. It took a few passes on each side to dehorn the unhappy beast.
After Steve got the horns off, Casey relaxed his hold and let the steer jump up. It ran right back into the herd, kicking at the air.
