Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  “Pa, Augustus is right behind me.”

  Parker Mulock stood there, holding his hat with one hand and massaging his scalp with the other. Charley looked him over. How many more Mulocks were going to pop out of the woodwork?

  Another ghostly figure appeared in the storm. He rushed across the yard and into the gloomy foyer. Unlike his eldest son Parker, who was sopping wet, Mr. Mulock’s cousin Augustus Gaumer was wisely wearing a yellow slicker. He immediately hung it on a wall peg, where it dripped on the hardwood floor.

  “Is it bad, Augie?” Mulock asked.

  “It ain’t good.”

  “Well, it sure as hell ain’t good if you’re here. Boys, let’s move this into the great room. Build us a fire!”

  Mulock marched across the foyer and through a wide archway which led into the dining room. Charley and Caverango felt as if they had been forgotten. None of Mulock’s cowboys showed them any interest, and the Mulock boys followed their father without so much as a look back.

  Caverango watched them go, feeling a ray of hope. They were simply looking for a free meal when they first saw the IM. That was what a lot of cowhands did — and most ranchers were happy to feed a wandering vaquero. But this did not feel right. It felt like some kind of lion’s den.

  “Vamanos?” Caverango suggested, beneath his breath.

  Charley’s temple was bright red from the swipe he had been given. Surely, thought Caverango, even Charley Crouse realized this was an opportune time to ride out. It was hailing like crazy — which would only aid their escape. The Mulocks would not try and ride them down in a hail storm.

  “Naw,” Charley said softly. He watched the group go through the archway. The dining room was the tallest part of the Big House. It was the room with all the windows. On a clear day, the Mulocks had a full view of the grassy prairie from their supper tables — all the way across South Park. At the present moment, of course, all anyone could see was hail.

  “Walk out now, they’ll cut us down for sure,” he reasoned. “Follow of our own volition — they welcome us as one of their own.”

  He touched the side of his head gingerly, with his fingertips. There was no blood. He had taken worse hits to the head than this.

  “Ol’ boy’s savage as a meat axe,” Charley announced. He grinned suddenly. “Might be a crew we can tie to.”

  Caverango watched him stride off through the archway with a fresh spring in his step. With one last longing glance at the front door, Caverango scooted off after Charley.

  This was his one chance to get away from both Charley Crouse and the IM. But Caverango’s fears of sudden electrical death were too strong, after all. No matter what he told himself, he knew he couldn’t go out there now. Not in a storm like this. Every minute the sky lit up. The thought of being blasted off his horse was worse than staying with Charley and the Mulock clan.

  He wished Poqito hadn’t been shot. If Poqito was there, then Caverango would have felt a lot better. As it was, he would have to wait to make his escape. Besides, Charley could very well be right — the Mulocks did seem like the type to chase people down.

  Caverango didn’t want to get shot, and he didn’t want to get lightninged. So he reluctantly stepped into the gloomy dining room and took a seat next to Charley Crouse.

  There was a large circular fireplace in the middle of the room, with an open hearth on both sides. The chimney seemed to go up and up and disappear in the shadows. Peter, the youngest of the Mulock boys, seemed to know his place and went right to work building a fire. He singled out a couple of Mulock’s cowboys to help. They brought in loads of fresh split wood, kept dry beneath the veranda, and soon had the fire roaring.

  Charley and Caverango sat quietly near the windows.

  “Big trouble with the stocks. Half them mines are floundering, closing up,” Augustus told Mr. Mulock in a sober voice. “We’ve got $200 thousand riding on it. All our eggs in the same damn basket.”

  “How much in the vault?”

  “Pshaw,” Augustus waved his hand. “Five grand in cash. The bank is teetering.”

  Mulock frowned and drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

  “Get us some beers,” he told Peter gruffly.

  Peter hustled into the kitchen.

  Charley perked up. What was this? They had just stepped into an interesting conversation! They might learn something useful. That something might even save them — or it might kill them. Either way Charley Crouse was paying close attention.

  “At the end of the day, it’s insolvent,” Augustus explained. “Matter of time till it is broke. Collapse is imminent.”

  Mr. Mulock tapped his fingers on the table. He did not look pleased.

  “This is timely then,” Edson chimed in. “I happen to know for fact that George Green just sold the 63.”

  “When did you hear that?” his father demanded.

  “Talked to him this very morning. Told me he’s planning on making a deposit. Could be riding to Cañon even today. You can bet he’ll want that holed up in the bank, quick as can be.”

  “Who did he sell to?” Augustus asked.

  “Haver,” Edson said. “Owns the Cleveland Cattle Company.”

  “Fifty thousand green,” Mulock said, still frowning. “We’re close-fisted on this, Augie. Don’t you dare bet that out, you hear me?”

  Augustus looked as if he was stung by a bee.

  “I won’t bet nothing out.”

  “You just slick up and be that dandy cashier you been all along. Keep receiving funds, like everything is fine. We need all we can reap now.”

  Mulock’s face got darker as he spoke.

  “I won’t be the one sucking hind teat. I’ll be in Mexico if this thing blows up.”

  Chapter 8

  Whale Mine

  Webster Pass

  “A buckaroo don’t milk no cows.” LG said, offended.

  “You look like you just ate a skunk,” Cassius told him.

  LG turned and looked at the cattle as if he was seeing them for the first time. There were only about fifty head total, spread out in the pine.

  “We are short-handed,” said Cassius. “Everybody’s got to pitch in.”

  The Whale Mine was so high up in elevation, it seemed like there was hardly any air to breathe. LG caught himself wheezing when he walked from the bunkhouse to the meal hall. The prospect of milking cows also made him wheeze.

  Cassius sighed impatiently while LG mulled this over. He knew LG was a cattle puncher, and like every cattle puncher he ever met, had no interest in milking cows. But Cassius was a realist.

  “Rest of us are in the mine.”

  Avoiding Cassius’ eye, LG counted through the local peaks. There was Sheep Mountain, Whale and Glacier Peaks to the south. Up north, he could see Handcart and Red Cone clear as day. All of them rose so high, half the time they were lost in the clouds.

  “Would you rather break ore?” Cassius asked, getting irritated.

  LG put his hat back on and squinted against the sunlight. In that moment, it sank in: he was not working for a regular cow outfit. It had no chuckwagon, no trail boss…not even a brand. This was just a no-name silver mine with some ratty-looking cows crapping in the trees.

  “I would rather not break ore,” LG muttered.

  “Milk them cows, then,” Cassius said. “And collect all the eggs, too. Take ‘em to the kitchen.”

  The coop was situated next to the corral. It was full of squawking chickens. LG had to walk past it every day, more than once. Sometimes he would throw rocks at the hens to stir them up for fun. Now the indignities were stacking up quicker than he could say Jack Robinson.

  “Be baking rhubarb cobbler next.”

  But Casssius had already stalked off. He had more important things to do than argue with LG Pendleton. There was a mine to oversee. When the cat’s away, he knew all too well, the mice will play. And half these miners needed to be supervised closely. High-grading was a problem — it was all too easy to fill a tin lunch buc
ket with ore. Of course, he only paid the miners $2.25 a day. He knew they were getting $2.50 up in Leadville. But this was not Leadville.

  The Whale Mine was remote. LG had been cutting through the backcountry for quite some time when he ran across it, several weeks back. Work meant three square meals and a bunk, and he was ready for those comforts. He had been through a rough spell, with too much on his mind to stay out in the backcountry any longer — with only his horse for company.

  LG headed over to the paddock where the horses were kept. Specter was standing on the far side with his head between the rails, nosing for grass. The paddock had been picked over for so long, it was just dirt. But there was some tasty looking grass growing right outside the fence.

  LG uncoiled his rope and stepped inside. There were about twenty horses in there. Like normal, they all scattered. Specter knocked his head on the rail trying to back up, but LG was not going after him. He wanted the dun instead and dropped a loop around its neck on the first try.

  Even though Cassius had said there were other cowhands employed at the Whale, they were actually miners by trade. LG discovered they could sit a saddle — but that was about it. One of them, a freckly kid named John, was sitting on the top rail gnawing on an apple core. John had worked at the Whale all summer long. Now that an experienced stockman had signed on, John liked to spend his free time following LG around. He was impressed with LG’s ability to throw a loop and whooped when LG caught the dun so easily.

  “John-boy. Get the gate. I need you.”

  John slid off the fence and opened the gate for LG.

  “Only got a few minutes,” John told him, flinging the apple core into the paddock. “I’m on supper duty. Helping cookie on the butcher-block today.”

  “Naw, you’re needed right here, pard.”

  The Whale Mine was owned and operated by two brothers: Cassius and Franklin. Well, Cassius ran it and Franklin mainly drank. No one ever saw him much. LG had never even met the man. The Whale produced a significant amount of silver ore. In fact, it had produced so well that the brothers built a smelter and a tramway to carry the ore. LG and John could hear voices carrying down the slope, along with the ring of mattocks.

  A seasoned cowhand at the Whale was a rarity, so Cassius hired LG the moment he rode in. And for LG it had been nice up until that moment — being the top hand. Now the top hand was handling cow teats and fowl.

  He saddled the dun and rode into the cattle pen, cutting out a cow and her calf. They bolted away together — the calf sticking close to its momma. The dun turned out to be a good cutting horse and took after them instantly. LG was surprised. These fellows may not have any real cowhands up here, he thought, but somehow they got a hold of one decent cowhorse. But the dun was rusty. She wasn’t used to a real rider, he could tell.

  LG shook out a loop and roped the momma. The cow did not like what was happening, and twisted and kicked.

  “We best snub her. She won’t stand pretty for us. Put your money on that.”

  LG pulled the cow into the round pen. He took her straight to the snubbing post and tied her head up against it. John ran off to find a pail. After a few moments she settled down.

  John came running back with a pail. He held it out to LG.

  “Here it is!”

  “All you, bud.”

  John frowned. The camp cook was surely wondering where he was by now, and he was going to be mad if John never came back from his lunch break.

  “Careful now,” LG warned him. “Don’t get stomped.”

  John set the pail on the dirt and slid it beneath the cow’s udder with his boot. He squatted down but paused, wiggling his fingers uncertainly. John had been raised in New York. Milk came in glass bottles in New York. He glanced up at LG, hoping for some advice.

  “What do I do?”

  “Grab on.”

  John shrugged and reached in. Even though her head was snubbed against the post, the rest of her was free enough. Her hind hoof snapped out and caught him right in the forehead.

  Chapter 9

  “You’ll do anything to get out of butchering,” LG said.

  John held a handkerchief to his forehead. It was soaked in blood. His hat was in his other hand — the brim was torn from the hoof strike.

  “Got the skull cramps,” John said miserably.

  LG led him by the elbow to the bunkhouse. He took him inside and sat him on the nearest mattress.

  “Am I gonna die?” John asked. “Feels like I’m gonna die.”

  He stretched out on the bed, looking piqued. His shut his eyes tight and kept the kerchief pressed against his head.

  “Won’t be no dead shine in camp tonight,” LG assured him, patting the top of his head like a dog.

  Cassius appeared in the doorway, obviously out of breath from hurrying.

  “I heard John got his head kicked in!”

  LG reached in his vest pocket and took out a small quid of tobacco.

  “Yep,” LG said and put a pinch in his mouth.

  Cassius looked at John’s blood-streaked face, then over to LG casually pinching off a bite of tobacco.

  “I see you are wrought with concern over your fellow man.”

  “This is medicine,” LG explained, holding up the package.

  “Climax Chewing Tobacco.” Cassius said doubtfully. “Medicine?”

  “Not only my favorite chew…makes a fine poultice.”

  “Think I’m goin’ to die,” John mentioned to Cassius.

  Stepping over to the young man, Cassius reached down and lifted the handkerchief. John kept his eyes closed, fearing the worst. Dark sticky blood was all over his face. In the center of his forehead was a deep gash. The tear was several inches wide and the skin was bunched up.

  “Got a good flapper there.”

  “Oh me,” John moaned and pressed the handkerchief back on his forehead.

  LG stepped over and lifted it again. He spit a glob of wet tobacco into his hand and liberally applied it to the wound, smoothing the skin into place as best he could.

  “Stay,” LG said to John, and then nodded at Cassius. “One more thing, hang on.”

  He left the bunkhouse and went over to the hay barn. On a dusty shelf in the tack room, he found a small can of Thribble H Horse Liniment. He took it and headed up to the kitchen. The cookie was there, working a lump of sourdough.

  “Need some hot water,” LG announced.

  “On the stove.”

  A large cast iron wood stove dominated one corner of the room. The whole kitchen was uncomfortably warm, even with the windows wide open. Sitting on top was a blue ceramic kettle, steaming. LG found an empty drinking mug and poured some hot water in it.

  “What happened to the kid?” the cook asked irritably. “You stole my helper, damn it.”

  LG set the liniment can on the tabletop and used a butterknife to pry it open.

  “Well, you ain’t got no help no more.”

  The cook paused over his lump of sourdough and glared unhappily at LG.

  “John-boy took a hoof to the face,” LG explained, and then paused reflectively. “Nicen up…people might like you more.”

  The cook ran a floury hand across his sweaty forehead, and then rested his palms on the countertop. He gave LG a forced, toothy smile.

  “Can you gut that thing?”

  “Cash got me milking cows.”

  The cook punched the dough, rattling the counter and a rolling pin fell on the floor. LG shook his head. Yet another cantankerous cook, he thought. Every other cook he ran into had a chip on his shoulder, it seemed — except Emmanuel. He had a good attitude. LG stirred the liniment into the hot water with the butterknife.

  Cassius was standing in the doorway of the bunkhouse, looking impatient, when LG finally came back.

  “Here, John-boy, sit up.”

  John sat up. LG handed him the mug.

  “Drink it all.”

  Cassius left without saying another word and marched back to the mine. His constan
t concern over ore theft hovered over him like a cloud. LG watched him go and was glad he was gone. People got too pent up, in his opinion. Why live life pent up all the time?

  “Tonight, you have to sleep with your head pointed north. If you don’t, gonna wake up with the Ursa Majors and the gangrene-itis.”

  “Oh, me,” John said.

  “Just point your head north, you’ll be fine.”

  John didn’t know what the Ursa Majors were, but they sounded bad enough. And the gangrene-itis sounded horrible, as well. He wished he was back in New York.

  Chapter 10

  Texas Panhandle

  “There…up ahead,” Lee pointed out. “Must be the eatery.”

  “About time we happen upon it,” Davis said, squinting to see through the heat waves piping off the plains. “I’m getting surly.”

  It was a one-story frame house, but it had a tall false front, which made it seem bigger than it was. The walls had been painted white at some point but had been successfully sandblasted by the prairie winds. Big black letters stenciled across the storefront read: Singer’s Store, Merchandise.

  A buckboard was parked in the shade. The mules stood sleepily in their harnesses, lulled by the Texas heat. There was one horse, a sorrel, at the hitching post out front. Clumps of white and blue sage dotted the area. Besides short grass and wildflowers, it was the only vegetation on these wide empty flats.

  Inside, it was such a contrast from the bright sunlight that it took several minutes to get used to it. It was much cooler inside, too. They saw a long boarding table situated against one wall, and the rest of the room was cluttered with supplies and shelves. Three men were already there eating a meal. Lee and Davis walked over and sat down wearily. As they took their seats, the proprietor appeared from the back.

  “Fifty cents,” Sam Singer told them, wiping his hands on a towel. “Biscuits, pickles and beefsteak.”

  “Suits me well,” Lee said.

  “Keep the coffee coming,” Davis added.

  Sam Singer looked down at Davis sourly. Of course there would be coffee. Cowboys came through here every single meal, every single day. It went unspoken that he would serve up coffee. In fact, Sam Singer prided himself on good coffee. He ground it fresh every morning with a cast iron mill. And he rinsed the pot out good every night.