Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  Up ahead, Griff saw the big granite outcrop. He led the way around the bend and saw the stagecoach sitting in the middle of the road. Several horses were standing near the ravine — they were saddled, too. Then Griff saw two bodies sprawled out on the ground. He rode over to take a look.

  It was pretty clear these two were not getting up again. Ira’s skull top was shot open and some brains were on the outside. Edwin was covered in dust and torn up pretty badly — Griff knew immediately it was from being trampled. Actually, he was surprised the kid wasn’t worse off. He had seen men run down in a stampede and all they found afterward was a boot heel.

  Griff looked around. He wondered what happened here. Whatever it was, it had just happened a little while ago. Fresh manure was everywhere, and the blood was wet and warm.

  “They kilt some more folk! Damn them!” Ben cried out.

  He was still outraged over how easily he had been overpowered in the sheriff’s office. He should have expected the men they were hunting might circle back. Why wouldn’t they? When they had their man locked up? Thick as thieves, the saying went. Ben should never have taken the task of tracking the getaways so lightly. Let alone josh and drink and cut up with Emerson, when they were on a serious manhunt. Maybe Emerson Greer would still be alive and Caroline Greer would not be a widow, and his own wife Meggy wouldn’t have to console her every day. Now here were more dead men. Ben felt a wave of guilt.

  “Check that coach,” Griff told Red Creek.

  The two of them got off their horses and went to have a look.

  Roy stepped out of his buckboard awkwardly and stretched. His back and tailbone hurt. He needed to move around, so he went over to look at Ira and Edwin. They were certainly dead, there was no question there. They looked like cowhands.

  “Probably shot down without no warning,” he said to Merle, who was still in the saddle with a rifle in his hands.

  But Merle was not listening. His eyes were working over the hillside. There could be riflemen up on that big outcrop, sighting them down even then. Or spread out among the trees. This was a good place to be attacked — the way the road bent around that granite bluff, it was a blind corner.

  Roy realized he was not going to get a conversation out of Merle, let alone trade modes of transport, so he walked around to work out the stiffness. He looked down in the ravine.

  “Griff!” he called out. “Got one in the river!”

  He stood by the edge of the road and pointed.

  Griff and Red Creek were standing over Jim Everitt and Ian Mitchell, and Lem’s body sprawled out on the mail. Griff heard the tension in Roy’s voice, so he hustled right over. From the road, they could all see someone was in fact lying in the creek. The bank had white crusty ice all along its edge, but the water flowed freely and loudly.

  “Saw him move!” Roy shouted and pointed down at him again.

  Merle snapped his fingers.

  “Boys.”

  Three of his ranch hands slid off their horses and put up their guns. The slope was steep, but they worked their way down by grabbing tree limbs and brush for balance.

  It was Casey Pruitt, lying face up in the water.

  The young men got down the slope and checked him over. It was obvious that Casey had been shot a couple times. His clothes were completely soaked with blood and river water. Casey’s eyes fluttered.

  “He ain’t dead!”

  “Well, get him outta the water!” Merle shouted back.

  Ben, Merle, Griff, Roy, Red Creek, and the rest of Merle’s boys watched them lift Casey up to his feet. He was dripping, too weak to stand, and was barely conscious as it was.

  “Mercy,” Griff sighed.

  They got Casey back up the slope and set him out on the ground. His skin was blue from lying in the cold water.

  Griff heard a buckboard. He glanced up the road. It was the young lady they passed earlier. He raised his hands up and went over.

  “Hold up, ma’am!”

  Chapter 44

  “He’s coming to. Mister, how many were there? What did they look like?”

  “Let him revive, Ben — for Pete’s sake.”

  Ben was leaning right over Casey, shaking him by the shoulders. Casey had trouble getting his eyes to focus. He shivered suddenly, like a wave had just washed over him. He rolled over onto his side and began coughing.

  “Stand back,” Julianna told the men, in a commanding tone.

  The coughing fit passed. Pushing up on his elbow, Casey tried to get up, but his left arm gave way and he fell on the ground. Painfully, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the blue sky. Julianna knelt down beside him and pressed her palm to his forehead.

  “What happened?” Casey asked.

  “You been shot,” Griff told him.

  Casey’s shoulder felt like it was on fire, even though he was freezing cold. He had another hot spot in his chest, too. He felt around and discovered his fingers were wet with blood. He blinked and lowered his hand.

  “Them murderers go on down the road then?” Ben demanded, impatient. “How many were they?”

  But Casey was blank. Another wave of shivers ran through him and he folded his arms across his chest. He realized he was soaking wet.

  “Did I fall in the creek?”

  “Come on, mister!” Ben shouted. “Which way?”

  “Hobble your lip,” Griff told him, irritated. “The man’s down. Give him a chance.”

  “They kilt Emerson Greer, didn’t they?”

  “I saw them,” Casey said. He felt woozy but tried sitting up again.

  “Don’t know how many,” he continued. “They shot…”

  Casey’s memory started coming back. He scrambled to his knees. Julianna stood up with him, holding his good arm for assistance. Griff stepped in to help, too. Squinting to see clearly, Casey looked around. He saw Ira and Edwin lying on the road and rushed over, falling to his knees. Casey squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Oh, no.”

  Ben’s face was red. It was hard to stand by watching when he knew the men they were after couldn’t be far away. The question was, did they ride down the canyon? Or did they turn up Spring Gulch? There were fresh horse tracks leading back up the gulch — but it also looked like a whole herd of horses had ridden on down the road. There were hoofprints and fresh heaps of dark green horse manure everywhere he looked. They could have gone either way. Even Red Creek Mincy was not sure, and he had years of tracking experience.

  “What can you remember?” Griff asked Casey.

  He opened his eyes and stared at Edwin and Ira.

  “Someone called Charley Crouse,” Casey said, trying to think. “But some other fella kilt my friends, though. And a couple vaqueros…they all stood right there.”

  Griff shot a glance at Merle Hastings. They both recognized the name Charley Crouse, by reputation. Griff was sure the man was a horse racer, but he lived way up north in Brown’s Park somewhere. What was he doing down here?

  “Where’s LG?” Casey asked them. He looked up and down the road. The stagecoach was still sitting where it had been. It was all coming back.

  “Couple more around there, I’m afraid,” Griff said, nodding toward the coach.

  Casey got to his feet again. He had a sick feeling in his stomach. Heading slowly toward the coach, Casey prayed it wasn’t LG or anyone else from the B-Cross. But Ira and Edwin were both dead, right back there. Who else would it be?

  Julianna walked behind him, and noticed there was blood all over his back. They all followed him around the coach. Griff pointed out the stage drivers and Lem.

  “Don’t know these men,” Casey said, relieved.

  “I know these two,” Julianna spoke up quietly. “That’s Jim Everitt and that’s Ian Mitchell. They work the stage line.”

  “So this other one…he ain’t part of the cow outfit and don’t work for the stage,” Merle said, using the toe of his boot to roll Lem over. “Got to be one of the gang we’re after.”

  Nodding, Gr
iff scratched his chin and throat — he had several days of growth, and it was starting to irritate his skin. He looked up at the sky. The sun was going down. It was hanging just above the snow-covered peaks but as soon as it fell behind the ridge, it would start getting dark again. Griff looked around at everyone. Ben was impatient to be off and could barely stand still. Roy was clearly shocked by all this death and was sitting quietly in his wagon. Red Creek was unfazed, and stared cooly at Griff for direction. Merle went over to his ranch hands and began quietly instructing them to be wary and calm. They were young and obviously unsettled by all this. Griff had seen his share of death and knew what it felt like when you hadn’t seen it before.

  Griff turned to Julianna.

  “Can you cook supper for a dozen hungry men?”

  “I can and will, happily…as long as there is a bite left,” she replied. “My home is just down the road a little further, in Gold Hill.”

  It was a decision that would not sit well with everyone, Griff knew that. The gang they were after had less than an hour’s headstart. However, trying to tell which direction they rode was going to be hard. The ground was a criss-cross mess of horse and cattle tracks. Also, there was the problem of the dead cowhands. The posse could not simply ride off, as things stood. Griff believed in the importance of propriety and doing things right. After all, as a deputy he represented order and the good of society. Lawless men had the luxury of transgression — Griff did not.

  “We need to bury these men.”

  Ben’s face looked like it was going to burst, but he turned around and stalked off instead. Griff watched him go. None of them wanted to give up yet. But looking at Casey and Julianna and all the dead men on the ground, not to mention four mules standing in their traces — Griff decided it was the right thing to do. Then they could see what the morning might bring.

  Chapter 45

  Rufe rode back up Spring Gulch. He held onto one of the reins from his brother’s horse. Steve was hunched over, gripping the saddle horn as tight as he could. After an hour of riding, they passed the last few cows in the herd, and almost collided with Lee and Davis.

  “What happened?”

  “Been waylaid!” Rufe shouted, without slowing down. “The herd’s broke — forget them damn cows!”

  Lee and Davis had heard the gunshots echo off the hills. Lee counted seven shots but Davis counted eight. They were arguing about it when Rufe and Steve came crashing through the underbrush.

  The McGonkins wove through the pine and were gone.

  Lee looked back down the gulch. The last few steers in the herd were plodding on slowly in the warm sunlight. A squirrel was up in a ponderosa chirping angrily at them. In the quiet and sunshine, Lee was confused. It felt wrong to abandon the herd. But Steve was dripping blood all over his horse’s withers, and Rufe had certainly looked frazzled.

  “What do we do?” Davis asked him.

  Looking up and down the gulch, Lee wondered himself. What would LG say? What would he tell them to do?

  Chapter 46

  In the pitch dark, Emmanuel walked carefully so he would not trip and spill the coffee.

  “Here you go,” Emmanuel whispered and held out a steaming cup to Davis.

  “Much appreciated.”

  Davis could barely make out Emmanuel in the dark. The black man was nearly invisible. He propped his rifle against an aspen. He cupped his hands around the mug and let it warm his fingers.

  Emmanuel had been riding behind the drags that morning. Getting the chuckwagon down Spring Gulch was not easy. The trail they were following was barely a footpath, if even that — and the trees grew so close he wasn’t sure he was going to make it. When Rufe frantically rode past the wagon with his brother in tow, Emmanuel wasted no time turning around.

  Having spent his early years in the army, he knew how to doctor wounds. He always kept calomel, castor oil, bandages, needles and thread, and a good supply of whiskey in the cookbox. Once they got back to Preacher’s Glen, he did what he could for Steve.

  Moonlight made everything that was white waver in the dark like phantoms — aspen bark glowed, the snow on the ground lit up. Davis was just a dark shadow himself. The only way he knew Emmanuel was headed in his direction, was the flour sack around his waist bobbed like a will o’ wisp.

  After wrestling with it, both Lee and Davis had made the decision to leave the cattle and ride after the McGonkins. When they got to the glen, they found Emmanuel setting up camp right where they had the night before. Steve was in pain but conscious, and Rufe was agitated and couldn’t sit still.

  It was strange. They could smell the cow manure in the meadow all around them — but the herd was not there, of course. Davis took a quick sip and worked his jaw.

  “Singy. Mebbe in an hour this’ll be ingestible.”

  “You just keep readin’ that dictionary,” Emmanuel told him.

  The cook turned and headed back towards the campfire. He had barely gone five steps when a gunshot went off in the trees.

  Emmanuel dropped like a stone.

  The gunshot echoed up and down the glen like thunder. Davis dropped his coffee mug and grabbed his rifle. He pointed it into the woods but it was too dark to see. He waited for another shot — the discharge would give him a target. But nothing happened.

  He smelled gunsmoke wafting in the dark.

  “Lee?” he whispered.

  “Yeah.”

  “See where that came from?”

  “Nope.”

  At the firepit, Rufe scrambled out of his bedroll, grabbed his gun and leapt behind a log. Steve was in no shape to move so he stayed where he was, lying flat on the ground.

  The forest was silent. Even the crickets had stopped.

  The fire crackled. It was down to a hot bed of coals and cast a deep reddish glow. A few steps from the fire and the night closed in. The crescent moon was out again, although a thin layer of clouds filled the sky. All the stars were gone.

  Emmanuel got up and hustled for the wagon.

  Another shot rang out. The gunfire was quite visible in that moment and without hesitation both Lee and Davis fired at it. Their own muzzle flashes were bright like lightning.

  Emmanuel slipped and hit the ground near the fire, landing hard with a grunt. He did not stay there this time but got right up, scampering behind the first tree he could find. He realized the flour sack was glowing in the moonlight. No wonder they were shooting at him. He untied it and threw it on the ground.

  The afterclaps were loud. After the sound faded, they heard a loud voice carry in the dark:

  “That Negro’s still flopping. You bean-eaters can’t shoot worth shit.”

  Chapter 47

  The Commodore’s Cabin

  Gold Hill

  “Obliged, miss.”

  Merle nodded politely and accepted the ceramic plate. He sat back in his chair and placed it carefully on the tabletop. It was heaped with pan-fried trout, deer meat, fresh greens and syrupy canned pears.

  The Commodore had not been able to shoot even one squirrel, as he had anticipated, so he spent the afternoon fishing in the creek. The catch of trout had come in useful. Julianna also had the groceries and supplies she purchased in Ward — and with the dried venison from the pantry, she was able to bring together a decent meal. She only hoped The Commodore would be able to maintain his composure and behave. She was worried. He did not get along well with unexpected company. Or any company, for that matter.

  “This is all quite unexpected, and favorable,” Roy Caldwell told her appreciatively. He seemed indecisive about which knee to lay his cloth napkin on. Living in the apothecary alone, his familiarity with supper table etiquette was rusty. In addition to this, he was feeling skittish in the presence of the young lady. The only ladies who entered the apothecary were either matronly or sickly — or both, usually.

  Red Creek took his plate and stepped outside. Juilanna watched him go…privately relieved the man with the dead fish eyes was no longer in her home.r />
  “He don’t do well with enclosed spaces, ma’am,” Griff explained, misunderstanding her look.

  That is fine with me, she thought.

  Merle’s ranch hands were spread out in the room, sitting on whatever they could find — crate, footstool, hearth, wash bucket. Since they were the youngest of the group, it went without saying the grown men would sit at the table. Griff, Merle, Roy and Ben sat across from Julianna and her father — who looked leathery, feral and permanently windblown. They gave Casey the most comfortable chair in the room. It was the only one that had a seat cushion. He barely touched his meal. He mainly stared into the fire.

  The large stone fireplace was roaring. Elk and deer horns and fox pelts were stacked in piles against the back wall. There were several old steel traps and a set of snowshoes hanging from nails. Griff looked around. He saw a gold-handled saber up on the fireplace mantle and glanced curiously at The Commodore.

  “Sorrowful affair,” Merle said, while Julianna finished serving supper.

  “This is a heinous crew,” Roy stated. “Leaving a kill streak all the way from Grand Lake to Boulder.”

  “For shit’s sake,” Ben Leavick muttered bitterly, and none too softly. He forked up a piece of deer meat and held it up. “Sheriff Emerson Greer is gutshot and dead. Now all these cowhands are murdered and here we are enjoying a fancy meal and a warm bed.”

  “Watch your language — we have a lady here,” Griff warned, and looked apologetically at Julianna. She sat quietly, sipping hot tea.

  “I seem to remember them knocking around our good deputy, as well. Why ain’t you up in arms like I am? Why ain’t we out on their trail right this very second? We had ‘em, boys. We were right there. Now those murderers are halfway to Burlington!”

  Merle cleared his throat and wiped his mustache with his fingertips. His ranch hands watched uneasily, chewing their food. Griff thought they looked quite similar to barn owls.