by Mark Mitten
If it was Granger who had fallen, Bill would have just left him behind. But it was Vincent, after all. So he shot Vincent’s horse — who was too hurt to even stand. Bill let him double up behind his saddle, then they cut up the first gulch they came to and rode off into the forest. And now here they were in Hall’s apple orchards, bickering over stupid things said for the hundredth time.
“How much longer we gonna wait? If they ain’t here by now they ain’t coming,” Granger told them. “Just them damn beaners and Charley Crouse, anyways. Lem’s dead. Will’s dead. We hold out here any longer, old man Hall is gonna find us for sure, and we’ll be dead.”
Vincent glanced at Bill from the corner of his eye.
“Turd’s got a point.”
It had been the topic of discussion for the whole week. The opinion swayed back and forth every night. Mainly, it was Bill who wanted to stay and wait. The pain was just getting worse for Vincent, even though he hated to take Granger’s side on anything as a general principle.
Bill thought about it. Seven long days hiding in a grove behind the red sandstone hogbacks of the Front Range was finally losing its appeal. As had a week of eating apples and saddlebag-aged beef strips.
“It was a fine plan, don’t get me wrong-like,” Granger said, brightening. “Them Mex’kins probably split off for gall-damn Mazatlan anyhow. Gobblin’ tortillas with little brown chicas. Catching the French Pox. And ole Charley, God knows he has a mind to do whatever he piss pleases.”
“Why don’t you go find us some tortillas,” Vincent told him and started to chuckle. But he winced as he did and held his chest. Vincent knew his ribcage was bruised badly. He knew what cracked ribs felt like, but it had never taken this long to heal up before.
The fire hissed and crackled and another cinder skittered off into the dark. Granger glared across the flames at Vincent. That guy sure thought highly of himself. Granger was tired of the insults. But he seemed to be getting through to him now, so Granger held his anger back and tried again.
“Keep in mind ole John Hall now. He’s gonna figure us out here soon,” Granger reasoned. “Longer we sleep out here, more likely we are to wake up with buckshot in our asses.”
Bill sat quietly watching the embers glow. Of course, Granger made the same statement every day. Bill had heard it enough times. He would rather watch sap boil up out of the backlog than listen to anymore of this same topic. However, Bill could tell Vincent was starting to side with Granger’s opinion — which meant the man was in serious pain.
“Apples, apples, all week apples.” Granger went on. “Get the backdoor trots while we’re off among the willows.”
Vincent coughed and his face scrunched up. He turned to Bill.
“Maybe we ought to consider riding on?”
Perhaps waiting in the orchards had run its course, Bill thought. It was true they couldn’t stay there forever. But where would they go next? Well, Bill knew. He quietly took out a small buckskin pouch and held it up in the yellow light.
“Whatcha got there?” Vincent asked him.
“Picked it off the driver.”
He unwound the twine and reached inside. He pulled out a short-handled key. He pinched it delicately between his thumb and forefinger and held it up to the light.
“Well?” Vincent prodded.
Granger leaned forward. He felt his heart beating but tried not to say a word. They had been riding together for a month, and Bill hadn’t mentioned this. Obviously, Vincent didn’t even know! To have big Bill Ewing reveal a secret key to him and Vincent at the same time made him feel like he was finally part of the gang. This is the inner circle, he thought. Bill, Vincent and me. Not even the infamous Charley Crouse! Granger took a breath and waited on Bill. He didn’t want to say anything that might make Bill mad, or jeopardize his standing in the inner circle.
“It’s a key,” Bill said finally, twisting it slowly in the firelight. “A key to a Post Office box in Denver.”
He reached back into the pouch and took out a piece of paper, rolled up tight. He unfurled it and read out loud:
“To Soapy Smith. For the Tivoli. Courtesy, P. Sloan.”
Chapter 2
Leadville
Colorado
10,152 ft.
“Cloud City!” the stagecoach driver shouted. He reached down and thumped the rooftop with the palm of his hand.
Harrison Avenue. The wide dirt street was busy. It was full of wagons, coaches and buckboards. Horses and mules pulled most of them — some oxen, too.
Casey looked out his window. Thousands of people were going about their day. It seemed like it was mostly men, miners, a sea of hats and mustaches in worn-out work clothes. Buildings rose up on both sides of the street, many two and three stories high. Most eye-catching, there were a surprising number of burros being led about. Some carried packs…and to Casey’s surprise, some were even saddled.
“Look at that. Grown men riding donkeys,” he said with a lop-sided grin.
Stepping into the sunshine, Casey marveled at how many people were milling about. He shook his head, thinking how noisy it all was. He was used to cows for conversation and tomato cans for something to read. Now here he was in the biggest mining city in the Rockies.
Behind him, Julianna extended her hand with falsified grace so the cowman could help her down.
“Many thanks to you, good sir.”
Casey grinned ear to ear and grandly removed his hat with a broad sweep. His sweep nearly clipped some folks.
“M’lady, your township awaits,” he said with an attempted accent.
Julianna laughed out loud at the way he said it.
“Casey! What was that? Welsh…or moonshine Kentucky?”
A wind blew up and whipped her long brown hair around her shoulders. She playfully gave him a punch in the arm.
Walking around the stagecoach, Casey got in line behind two other travelers who were waiting to get their own luggage. Up top, the driver loosened the knots that tied everything down. He handed down several other bags first, and then lowered a burgundy travel trunk to Casey.
Several coaches were stacking up in the street right behind theirs, loading and unloading passengers. The smell of horse sweat and smelter smoke was thick in the air.
“Boy, look at all this fuss,” Casey said to Julianna.
“Leadville is certainly bustling. I already heard two guns go off.”
“It’s every bit like Denver…big,” Casey continued. “Think I’d feel better if I saw some stockyards.”
Julianna smiled and shivered a bit with the slight chill. It may have been June, but it was June at ten thousand feet in the Rocky Mountains. She pressed her hands deep into her coat pockets.
“Where’s the Delaware?” Julianna asked a passerby.
“Corner on 7th,” the man told her and quickly walked on.
Julianna and Casey each took a side handle and lifted up the trunk. They stepped into the flow of townspeople and made their way up Harrison Avenue. After a block, Casey was starting to walk stiffly.
“Not used to actual foot walking,” he said with a wink. “Horseback — that I am accustomed to.”
“That, and,” Julianna spoke with gentle concern, “if my recollection is accurate, you’ve been shot two times and are still on the mend.”
He pressed his hand against his chest, took a deep breath and winced.
“That does contribute.”
All around Leadville, they could easily see immense mountains everywhere they looked. Peaks rose up on both sides of town. The western horizon was dominated by a large massif glistening white with snow. Someone told them it was Mount Massive on the ride in. And Mount Elbert. They were enormous, still caught up in winter conditions even though it was mid-summer down below. Long plumes of snow blew right off the summit ridges like streaks of cloud. To the east was the Mosquito range, which was not quite as jagged looking but still rose quite high.
Casey looked around curiously. These mountains were so t
all the trees didn’t even grow on top. A lot of mines were tucked in back there. Some were down in the trees and others were spread out along every inch of every creek — some were even way up on the summits. It was a different world than punching cows. The mining community was in full swing, which explained the proliferance of burros. Casey smiled again, wondering what twist of fate would lead a man to saddle a donkey.
The Delaware Hotel was three stories tall, red brick with a copper roof. The hotel was new and looked like it. The second and third floors all had tall narrow white-trimmed windows, floor to ceiling. The double-door entrance was built on the corner angle and just to its left, tall plate-glass windows gave everyone a good look at what the hotel store had to sell.
Julianna was excited. For years the nearest hotspot was Ward, Colorado. Not a cultural mecca by any stretch, but accessible. Perhaps even “accessible” was too generous a term, she thought. Julianna had never been to Leadville, and here the boom years were rolling along at full speed. It seemed to shine everywhere she looked.
Casey opened one of the solid pine doors for her, and they went up the entrance stairs to check in at the main desk.
“Welcome to The Delaware,” said the clerk. “Rooms rented by the month.”
“We’ll take two. Uh, separate rooms, please,” Casey said chastely, and then added:
“What kind of preachers you got up here?”
Chapter 3
Hay Ranch
North of Garo
South Park
The ladder was rickety. Til shifted his weight gingerly. Looking off in the grassy valley, he spotted a spiral of smoke to the north. A steam locomotive was slowly chugging into sight. It pulled a short line of rail-cars, and from this distance looked like it was barely crawling through the grass.
Til hung his bucket on a thick nail in the roof’s eave and called down.
“Here comes the train.”
The bucket was full of wet clay, and Til’s hands were covered in it. Taking care, he made his way down the ladder — leaving hand-prints on every rung. Stepping back for a minute, Til assessed his work as he cleaned up with an old rag.
“Chinkin’ and daubin’,” Steve McGonkin said admirably. “Are we really down to just this?”
“Are we ever down to anything?” Til responded with a carefree grin. “Always something.”
The house was basically done now. It was the only building in sight on these gentle grassy slopes. They had spent weeks on it — a meticulous project. Til insisted that it should be plumb and square. He did not want a saggy looking home.
Behind the house, the west ridge rose up abruptly and cut off their view. But to the east, the valley was wide open and they had a clear line of sight. The McGonkin brothers even helped him build a large front porch so they could sit and watch the sun rise in the mornings. It also provided an easy view of the Denver South Park Railway running right down the valley.
It was a nice morning. Not too hot yet. Til took his hat off and ran his sleeve across his brow. Things were coming together. Finally! Quite a bit different, he considered, than the cattle drive earlier that year. Everything fell apart that day.
Stepping into the sunlight, Rufe McGonkin stuck his head out of the doorway.
“Hi-ya boss. Ready for the carryall?”
“Yep. Let’s get the horses in their traces. Emmanuel in there?”
“Yessir, he is.”
“Let him know to get some dinner rolling. I’m sure we’ll be back by the noon hour.”
Rufe ducked back inside while Til and Steve headed for the corral.
“I’ll rope them horses,” Steve volunteered.
The corral was the first thing they built. They made it out of lodgepole pine, fresh cut from the west ridge behind the house, stripped of all the bark. The rails were still sappy in spots. Every pair of Til’s gloves were sticky.
There was a horse-drawn cart parked nearby. Its large spoked wheels were chocked into place. It was basically new. Til bought it some weeks back to help move timber and supplies. Next to it sat the B-Cross chuckwagon, all beat up by weather and a world of use. They built the house from the ground up, and all the while slept out at night and fed from the wagon.
Til smiled as he thought about it. It was the trail lifestyle. That was what they were all used to — and it was a hard habit to disrupt. Bedding down under the stars was how it had been for many years. Things were going to change after today, though.
Emmanuel came out of the house with Rufe. In the corral, Steve dropped a loop around one of the big black draft horses. Til had invested in a couple Percherons to pull the new carryall.
While he waited on the horses, Til looked across his new spread.
There were some cattle grazing on the tall grass — each running the B+C brand. They were the same Polangus and Durhams from before, but Til never did recover half of what they lost in Lefthand Canyon. Til and the McGonkins had gathered up a number of strays, but many were never seen again. It had taken several days to regroup, and the loss of half the crew was a hard blow.
He sighed, and not for the first time. It was just plain bad luck the B-Cross had driven their cattle right into a stage robbery. It even made the papers. “The Grand Lake Gang” was what they were calling it — the gang that murdered Ira and Edwin, shot Casey and Steve, and nearly ran Til’s brand into bankruptcy. Lee and Davis had quit after that. No one knew where LG was. It had been an ordeal.
“Mrs. Blancett gonna ‘preciate this fine home,” Emmanuel said with a big smile. He clapped a hand on Til’s shoulder.
“I think so.”
Til sent a wire to his wife in Iowa. A couple years had passed since he saw her last. Til planned to have more for her by now — wealth from his cattle operation. But with the Great Die-Up, the entire West was in a ball of confusion. Plus rails and farms were eating up the open range, and times were changing as it was. And with the losses of crew and cattle, well…Til wasn’t sure what to do. The answer might be raising pure-bred livestock. He knew Charlie Goodnight had been working on breeding techniques in the Palo Duro for several years now. Til was tempted to try the same. One thing he did know: simply collecting a hodgepodge of stray cattle, branding them and driving them north had seen its time.
The strays they rounded up in Lefthand were mainly Polangus, outnumbering the Durham they found. Til figured he could sell off the Durham and focus on Polangus. Breeding could be the game changer he was looking for. High quality stock would set him apart from other outfits, and he could get a higher dollar per pound.
He also knew it was good to be off the trail. Til was ready to settle down. The deaths of Ira and especially young Edwin brought his thoughts around to his own family, back east of the 100th parallel. Time was ticking away. He did not want to spend any more time without them.
“I’m all done on that kitchen table,” Rufe mentioned. “I’ll have all the tools put away by the time you get back.”
Rufe helped Steve lead the Percherons through the corral gate.
“Now you got a place to set your plate down, Til,” Rufe said. “I guess a man’s batwings ain’t the only plate he can eat off. Though I wouldn’t know, myself.”
“Well, a table is more rightly for a family,” Til pointed out. “But you boys can keep eating off your chaps if you want.”
The McGonkins got both the draft horses into their traces. Steve knelt down and unchocked the wheels.
“You’re all ready now.”
“Well, I guess I’ll head on up to Red Hill and pick her up,” Til said.
Soon, the carryall was moving north through the summer grass. By then the train had made some distance, but was still crawling as slow as the clouds above. Til knew he would be in Red Hill about the same time it pulled into the depot.
Chapter 4
Red Hill
The train eased into the depot. Steam hissed out in plumes. The sun was straight up in the sky and it was turning out to be a warm, pleasant summer day.
&nbs
p; Til drove the carryall up to a wide watering trough near the stock fences. The two big draft horses knew what to do and dropped their noses simultaneously into the cool mountain water. Just over the fence, cattle lowed and clanked their horns. The scent of cow manure was strong but it was such a natural thing that Til didn’t notice.
It was a busy time of day. Red Hill only had twenty-five permanent residents. The depot was the center of the town’s life. It did not even have a Post Office. Til had to ride all the way down to Garo for mail or groceries. But when the train came through, a crowd could swell. At least a dozen freight wagons were parked nearby. Their teams were hitched and the drivers sat ready. Til was not far away from one teamster and called out neighborly.
“What have you?”
“Dry goods. I’ll be making for Fairplay this afternoon. Alma, Dudley, Mosquito tomorrow.”
“Mining camps all need to eat, I suppose,” Til reasoned.
“That’s the long and short of it.”
The narrow-gauge train had large white lettering on the coal box behind the engine: DSP&P RR. The Denver South Park & Pacific ran all the way down from Denver into the Park, then kept going south to Garo, Weston and over Trout Creek Pass. For Til, the train had become a familiar sight. The steam whistle reminded him there was civilization beyond hay, cows, and home-building. Homesteading came with a different mentality than trail driving. Some days he got to feeling stuck and the steam whistle only made it worse sometimes.
Like most of the mountain trains, it was only a few cars in length. There were two passenger cars, one stock and four freight cars. The teamster nodded politely to Til and clucked his tongue. The other freighters all moved out to get in place by the freight ramps.
