Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  “Time to run the gauntlet,” Charley told him, quietly. “We been set upon from behind. Oh…and your Mexi friend is dead.”

  Both of them got to their feet. Charley held onto Caverango’s sleeve as they stood there, panting.

  “Alright, you ready?” Charley asked in the dark and slapped him on the back. “Rattle your hocks!”

  He took off at a run, pulling Caverango along by his sleeve.

  Both men ran directly towards the orange flicker of firelight. They ran right by Lee and Davis, who were unsure whether or not to shoot. They rushed past the smoldering fire and leapt over Steve and jumped the big log. They sailed right over Rufe and disappeared into the night.

  Chapter 52

  Lefthand Canyon

  “If you don’t shut up about them apple orchards I’ll reach over there and clock you,” Bill said to Granger.

  “The hell you will,” Granger replied weakly.

  Without the moon it was slow going. But since the stage road was an easy path to follow, they relaxed and let the horses pick their own way in the black night.

  “He probably cut up some draw, back a’ways,” Granger went on. “Done euchered us…he’s long gone.”

  “Vincent, what are your thoughts on all this,” Bill asked. “Should I clock Granger?”

  “If you don’t, I will.”

  “Hold up now!” Bill hissed.

  They all stopped and listened. Bill thought he heard something besides the river and the cold wind. He held his breath. What was it? A deer moving through the brush? The crackle of a cookfire?

  Silence.

  A beaver tail slapped the creek’s moving surface, somewhere off to their right.

  Bill angled his head to one side. That had to have been it.

  “Wish I could hear better out of this ear,” he said sourly to Vincent.

  “It was either I shoot and damage one of your ears — or I not shoot, and you could hear the judge crisp with both ears.”

  Bill’s horse nickered.

  Then they heard a horse burst into a gallop. They could easily hear the hoofsteps clattering down the road. They could not see to be sure, but Bill knew it was LG.

  “There he goes!” Bill yelled.

  Chapter 53

  Bill was right — it was LG. He let Specter pull ahead at a dead run, even though he could not see a thing. He held the reins loose to give Specter his head. He certainly hoped the horse had enough trail sense.

  Behind him, he heard guns go off. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark like lightning. With each flicker LG caught a glimpse of the road. Dark pines rose up to his right and left, walling him in. The only place to go was further down the road. LG’s main worry was the wheel ruts. They were fairly deep.

  LG brought his old .44 around and pulled the trigger. It fired. In that quick flash LG saw Bill, Vincent and Granger — clear as day for one split second.

  They were right behind him.

  LG leaned forward in the saddle like a jockey. Specter felt him shift his weight and pressed on even harder. The horse’s breathing was loud, percussive. It was all LG could hear.

  Time seemed to hang still.

  LG wondered if it would be better to simply stop and shoot it out. Or run off into the trees on foot. But he knew that would be foolish for more than one reason. He rode on.

  At that moment he heard a horse stumble behind him and go down. Someone just took a hard spill, LG thought. Almost at the same time, he heard horses squeal and somebody shout. He knew another horse had just wrecked — maybe all of them went down, he couldn’t tell. Whatever happened, it sounded bad. But to LG’s relief, the pursuit dropped off, and it was not long before Specter’s hoofs were the only sound.

  LG slowed him down to an easy trot. He was still expecting a wreck of his own and found it hard to believe he was still in one piece.

  He strained to listen — no one was riding after him anymore.

  The stage road was empty.

  Chapter 54

  Ward

  Prescott Sloan drummed his fingers on the window sill.

  “Okay, here it is,” Mr. James told him. “From Boulder Station: Stage no arrival, stop; if this be antics necktie social to follow, stop.”

  Spinning around, Sloan took the two steps it took to cross the room and leaned right over the banister. He plucked the paper out of Mr. James’ hand.

  Mr. James balked in surprise. His wiry glasses slid down his nose and nearly fell right off. He was not used to anyone plucking telegrams out of his hand. That was quite rude! But then, he knew Prescott Sloan well enough to expect rudeness.

  “Damn and blast,” Prescott Sloan enunciated each word. He crumpled the paper in his fist.

  Mr. James leaned back and scratched his head. Being a telegrapher could be boring much of the time. But sometimes things heated up. He wondered if it was better to hand Mr. Sloan his messages instead of reading them as they came off the wire. That was his standard practice, given that most folks were anxious to hear the message as it came in. It also gave Mr. James a bit of conversational fodder — it got pretty quiet in that tiny office. It was nice to chat with whoever came inside.

  This particular message had come in earlier that morning, and Mr. James had stacked it on the pile like he normally did. When Prescott Sloan came through the door, Mr. James sorted through the stack until he found the right one, which took some time since a multitude of messages had rolled in that morning — which was unusual. Noting Sloan’s impatient finger drumming on the window sill, Mr. James decided to immediately read it out loud. Now the testy banker was in a distemper. Perhaps Sloan took it as a breach of privacy, James considered. But as telegrapher, he read everyone’s messages. He couldn’t avoid it! From then on, Mr. James decided he would simply hand telegrams directly to the customer. He knew he would miss out on some nice conversation in the process, but he would also avoid any distemper as well. He sighed.

  The front door was propped open a crack. The morning had turned out quite gray and gloomy, so Mr. James had the small woodstove going. However, in such a small building the room got hot quick. So he kept the door propped open enough to let some of it escape. He liked to be cozy for his telegraphy — not boil in a sweat lodge. Outside, through the cracked door, both Mr. James and Prescott Sloan heard the jingle of traces.

  “That’s them,” Sloan grumbled. “The fools!”

  Flinging open the door, Sloan marched out into the street. He did not bother closing it behind him, so Mr. James had to get up and come all the way around the banister to close it…and make sure it stayed open just a crack.

  Sure enough, coming up the road was the stagecoach. But to Sloan’s surprise, Jim Everitt was not driving and Ian Mitchell was not riding shotgun. Sloan’s simmering anger turned into concern — concern for the leather pouch he had sent down the mountain.

  At the Halfway House, Griff brought the coach to an easy stop outside the corrals. Bitty the lead mule twitched her long ears, wondering why they were back here again. But perhaps there would be grain, so she stood patiently.

  “Who in the hell are you?” Sloan snipped as he walked up.

  “Deputy Sheriff of Grand Lake, Griff Allen,” Griff shot back. “And watch your tongue when you speak to me — don’t care for salty language.”

  “You’re out of your jurisdiction, deputy. Now where is Jim Everitt? And why is he not operating this coach?”

  Griff jumped down and landed hard on the ground. He was tired. With his thumb, he pointed back at the stagecoach. He was in no mood for snippy bankers with silver hair neatly combed to one side. Griff was not tired — he was exhausted. They had Lem’s body, and of course the head of Will Wyllis in a pickle jar. But Emerson Greer’s murderers were still not caught. That stuck in Griff’s craw, but there was a time for everything. And this posse had run its course.

  Now all Griff wanted was a hot meal, a bath and a shave. He wanted to go home. He wondered how Bonnie was holding up. She did not do well when he was gone. She
got lonely. Griff thought about her, all by herself in the kitchen, baking one of her terrible-tasting carrot cakes. He found himself thinking how nice it would be to share a slice of that terrible carrot cake with her, sitting next to the fireplace. The boys would be rambunctious, probably get in a fistfight. They were always like that when he came in off the trail.

  Ben Leavick sat silently up on the driving bench. He stared vaguely up at the mountains and the low gray sky. That was how he felt: low and gray. Sloan ignored him, grabbed the doorframe and hauled himself up so he could see through the window. The entire coach rocked with his weight.

  “Bang-up job, boys,” he muttered darkly. “This is fine as cream gravy.”

  Jim Everitt and Ian Mitchell were lying inside, dead as could be. There had holes in their heads and blood caked around their faces.

  “Who’s this other man?”

  “One of the Grand Lake Gang,” Griff told him, matter of factly. “They killed your drivers.”

  Opening the door, Sloan stepped inside and wiggled his boots in between the corpses, in order to get his balance. Without any further comments to Griff, Sloan proceeded to rifle through Jim Everitt’s vest pockets. Not finding what he was looking for, Sloan went on to check every pocket he could find — he even went through Lem’s clothes.

  Hugh Hughes came out of the Halfway House and ran over to the stagecoach. His sleeves were rolled up and wet from doing dish-work. Someone just told him the stage had come back in. That was odd. In fact, it had never happened before. Jim and Ian always drove the same circuit, every week. Why would they turn back?

  “What’s going on?” Hugh asked, looking worried. “Jim?”

  Sloan stuck his head out the door and glanced at Hugh. He knew Hugh had been friendly with these men. After all, they ate a meal and slept at the Halfway House all the time. Sloan did not care one whit’s lick about them, himself. He did care about his PO Box key. He climbed out into the street again and pointed at the doorway. Hugh looked inside.

  “Why, they kilt the boys,” Hugh said sadly. Then Hugh realized he had given Jim Everitt his pocketwatch. It was a family heirloom. He crawled up inside and began patting around at Jim’s vest pockets, frantically.

  “Ain’t nothing there,” Sloan told him. But he watched closely in case Hugh found something he might have missed…like the key he had given to Jim Everitt. Or the sizable transfer fee he gave Ian Mitchell to get it safely down to Soapy Smith in Denver — which was not in their pockets, either. And now Jim was dead, the coach was sitting in Ward, and the cash and PO Box key were gone. And apparently, so was Hugh’s pocketwatch.

  With a slow sigh, Hugh sagged down heavily in the doorway. He wiped his hands on the front of his apron.

  “Took my pappy’s pocketwatch,” he said. “Meant for my sister. There was a funeral and everything. She was supposed to get that watch.”

  Griff had been a lawman all his adult days. It was not the first time he had seen men grieved over a loss of property or life. He had seen a lot of loss in the past month alone. Emerson Greer. These two coach drivers. The cowmen of the B-Cross-C. And two dead outlaws. Griff wondered what caused men to be so violent towards one another — especially toward total strangers. And it was almost always over monetary interests.

  The sun was hidden. There was a chill in the air, but it was not cold enough to keep the flies from coming out. Several black flies zipped into the stagecoach and buzzed around the dead men’s eyes.

  “Thought to bring these two men up here,” Griff told Hugh. “We’re aiming to pack that other one out with us — hope there’s an undertaker about.”

  “Talk to Coke. He’s English,” Hugh told him. “Fella with the mustache.”

  “Mustache?” Griff asked skeptically. Everywhere he looked he saw men with mustaches.

  “You’ll know him when you see it. Dern near touches his titties.”

  The rest of the posse rode into town at that moment. Griff saw them come into view, riding up the hill. This little mining town would be a good place to rest up, he thought — start back home in the morning. Their horses were worn and they all looked worn out themselves. Roy Caldwell drove his little buckboard just behind the group of riders…one hand busy with the reins, the other hand resting on the pickle jar.

  Part 2

  CHARACTERS

  PART 2

  The IM Ranch:

  Mr. Mulock – ranch owner, family patriarch; also owns the Cañon City Bank

  Parker Mulock – eldest son

  Edson Mulock – middle son

  Peter Mulock – youngest son

  Augustus Gaumer – cousin to Mr. Mulock, and cashier at the Cañon City Bank

  Citizens of Leadville:

  Horace “Haw” Tabor – affluent owner of The Tabor Opera House, Matchless Mine

  Elizabeth “Baby Doe” Tabor – Horace’s eccentric wife and socialite

  Big Ed Burns – local crime boss

  Soapy Smith – Denver’s biggest confidence man & racketeer, with crime ties to Leadville

  George Fryer – successful miner

  JJ Brown – successful miner

  Maggie Brown – JJ’s wife and rising socialite

  Ben Loeb – local entrepreneur of baser things

  Notable citizens of South Park & surrounding area:

  Laura Blancett (Til’s wife)

  Walker Blancett (Til & L aura’s son)

  Sam Hartsel – owner of the Hartsel Ranch

  Cassius – owns & oversees the Whale Mine

  Chubb Newitt – runs the general store in Garo

  Frank Stevens – owns Stevens Saloon

  EP Arthur – Englishman, ranch owner

  The XIT Ranch (Texas):

  Sam Singer – runs “Singer’s Store, Merchandise”

  Colonel AG Boyce – new ranch manager

  AL Matlock – lawyer hired by the Chicago Syndicate to clean up corruption at the XIT

  George Findlay – young Scot, working for Matlock

  BH “Barbeque” Campbell – prior ranch manager

  Billy Ney – “the Xmas hell variety”

  Arizona Johnny – “the Xmas hell variety”

  Frank Yearwood

  Rollin Larrabee – bookkeeper

  Chapter 1

  Hall’s Ranch

  Lyons

  Colorado

  The wood sizzled and then popped. An orange cinder arced through the air and landed right in Granger’s lap. He immediately jumped up and began slapping around at his pants. The cinder fell off and dropped near his feet. It looked like a dying firefly. Granger stomped it.

  “Damn near burnt me,” he muttered. “See that?”

  Vincent and Bill were sitting on the ground, leaning back against the apple trees. The whole grove smelled like apples. Of course they saw the whole thing. But they didn’t really care. To them, Granger was a circus clown who had long since overstayed his welcome. His nasally voice and tooth-whistle talk was really getting under Vincent’s skin. Even Bill was tired of Granger. Bill always considered himself removed from the petty irritations of the lawless lifestyle. But after a full month dodging around in the backcountry with no one to talk to but these two, it was taking its toll.

  Staying off trail was a necessary evil. After so much killing and robbing, Bill knew they had to lay low. He didn’t let them ride into any town they came across. Not even for a quick meal at a local inn. Things were too hot. Plus Vincent had fouled himself up when his horse tripped. Even after weeks had passed, the man was still in a great deal of pain. What if some local lawman realized who they were? Vincent was dead weight. Granger was unpredictable. So Bill thought the best thing was to simply wait it out. Besides, he had instructed the rest of the gang to meet up at these apple orchards if things went wrong. And things had.

  Bill pulled at a thin chain dangling from his vest. He took out his new silver pocketwatch. It was from the stage driver. After Bill shot him, he went through his clothes. It was a nice timepiece, even engraved:
John Frederick Hughes, from Helena your loving wife: Absence from those we love is self from self. And sitting here under the apple trees, it was mighty useful. He could check the minutes and see exactly how much time passed between Granger’s rants and outbursts.

  “There was a time when I’d bellow at your fool ways,” Vincent complained. “Now it’s just deflating when you flap your maw.”

  He glanced over to Bill.

  “How long?”

  “Twenty whole minutes.”

  “Twenty whole minutes till what?” Granger asked them.

  Vincent sighed.

  “Go boil your shirt,” he told Granger.

  An owl hooted. It was in the tree up above the fire. Vincent could see it. It was just a small owl. He wished it was a big owl — a big owl that would swoop down and pluck out Granger’s eyes. Or carry him away into the sky. But of course, that was a wistful thought. There were no owls in all of creation big enough to carry Granger away. Vincent shifted. Leaning against apple trees for the past week was as uncomfortable now as it was then. Especially since his whole chest ached. He wished he had a nice bed to sleep in somewhere. Really, it was insensitive of Bill to expect him to sleep outside night after night, knowing he was banged up as bad as he was.

  Granger gave his lap one more defiant swipe and eased himself onto the ground.

  The apple orchards. The moon was high and no one else was there but them. Bill sighed impatiently. He was a little surprised…surely, at least someone should have gotten here by now. Maybe Charley rode back up to Brown’s Park. He had a home up there after all, and his own interests to look after. But surely the Mexicans had no better place to go.

  He looked over at Vincent — his face was in the shadows, but Bill could see it was pale even in the dark. That guy sure took a hard fall back on the stage road. He got boogered up pretty good. It had been Vincent’s horse that tripped that night. Bill was still a little put out. They were right on top of that waddie! Another minute and they would have ridden him down or shot the horse out from underneath him. But he got away. At that point, Bill knew the three of them better hole up. Let things cool off. That waddie rode straight into Boulder and stirred up the law…why wouldn’t he? Probably roused another posse and came right back up the canyon. There was still the first posse coming down from Ward. They would have been boxed in if they had stayed on the road.