Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  “Where are you from, Emmanuel?”

  He cleared his throat again and nodded thoughtfully.

  “Been doin’ cow work for quite some time,” he said. “A’fore that, I was soldierin’ down in Fort Concho.”

  “Where’s Fort Concho?”

  “Down in Texas, ma’am. I was with the 9th…‘A’ Company,” he said proudly. “Cavalry.”

  He took a sip and glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Mrs. Blancett’s blonde hair stood out brightly against her black shawl. She was friendly, and he appreciated the effort she was making. He found she was easy to speak with, which helped.

  Emmanuel himself had been married once. But that was a long time ago and only for a short time. She died of small pox before they could have any children. It had been too short a time to get very comfortable speaking with ladyfolk. Soldiering and cowboying did not afford too many opportunities, after that.

  “Muscatine. Never been there muh’self.”

  “Til came west a few years ago. Right about then a brand new business opened in town — making pearl buttons.”

  Emmanuel pointed at his shirt. It had large pearl buttons.

  “Like these?”

  “That’s right. The boats bring in clams from the river. I would punch out buttons, straight from the shells.”

  Emmanuel grinned again. The sky was getting lighter every moment. He knew the sun was right behind the ridge now, about to pop up.

  “I best get some eggs a-fryin’. Crew be coming inside soon.” He pretended to tip a hat since he was not wearing one. “Ma’am, many thanks fo’ the first rate con-vo-sation.”

  The cook disappeared into the dim kitchen. Even though it was hard to see in there, Emmanuel knew right where everything was. The woodstove had been going since 5 AM, and eggs would only take a moment. He liked to cook eggs. The coop was out back, and there were a dozen hens in it. They put out a good number of eggs every day. The idea of ranch life took some getting used to, but it was starting to sink in. There was a nice woodstove to cook on. He would not work out of a tiny chuckwagon anymore. He wouldn’t need to set up and tear down a potrack every night.

  Emmanuel took a bowl and went out back to collect some of those fresh eggs.

  Chapter 19

  Whale Mine

  “I do hate chickens!” LG complained. Feathers were floating all around him. They were sticking to his shirt and hat. He sucked one in as he talked and began sputtering.

  John stood at the hen house door with a small wicker basket in his hand. He watched LG sputter. John had two bruised eyes and a cloth bandage wrapped all the way around his forehead. The bandage was so thick he could not get his hat on. His hair poked up above it.

  “Here, John-boy,” LG called and tossed an egg towards him. The young man came out of his trance and hustled to catch the egg safely.

  “Better run them up to Greasy Belly. He’s one crabby ki-yote,” LG told him. “And best walk light since you botched it yesterday. He may do you harm for averting your skinnin’ duties.”

  “But I had a busted forehead!” John-boy replied, worried the cook would be mad. “Cow near raked my scalp off. That should be cause for exemption.”

  LG stepped out of the hen house and brushed the feathers from his sleeves.

  “Now, don’t get too close if he’s got a skillet in his hand. Or a rolling pin. He had a rolling pin yesterday. Just set them eggs down and get gaited.”

  John-boy turned and hustled up towards the cookhouse. He slipped on a pine cone and lost an egg. It dropped and broke. But the boy kept trotting along until he disappeared inside the building. LG watched him go and chuckled.

  It had been wise to sign on at the Whale — he had to get out of the backcountry. Being alone for weeks on end was hard on anyone, but it was especially hard on LG because he liked to be around people. He liked chatting with folks.

  The moment Specter whinnied in the darkness LG knew it was all or nothing. It had been the tensest moment of his life…and survival was the only thing on his mind. After those men wrecked, he had a decision to make. He could have kept riding into Boulder. There might have been safety in such a public area. But it was also the middle of the night. The town would have been asleep, and LG didn’t know Boulder all that well. The men chasing him may have known it better, caught up, and cornered him in some side street.

  Going off trail had its own risks, of course. He could have run into underbrush too thick to get through. Or ridden into a box canyon — or right off a craggy bluff and broke his neck. But Specter proved to be a good night horse. LG was pleased with the horse’s trail sense, but not his sense to keep quiet. But that was just a horse being a horse. Horses were herd animals after all and did not like being separated. It was just instinct to whinny when he heard another horse coming down the stage road. Unfortunately, it was also the worst possible moment.

  To be safe, LG had avoided any burgs or settlements. If he saw chimney smoke or smelter smoke or campfire smoke, LG gave it a wide berth. People talk. And if his pursuers had any tracking sense, they might trail him right into some small encampment and find out what they needed from some conversation-starved miner.

  The Whale had its own fair share of roughs. Being an isolated mine, with nothing to do but drink, LG had already seen some death since he hired on. That very week, a couple fellows drank too much and threatened Cassius himself. They pointed their guns right at him. Cassius backed down…long enough to go get his own guns and enlist some help.

  Cassius told everyone he planned on taking the men down to the Fairplay jail in the morning. They locked the two men in the cookhouse storeroom. But sometime in the night, they were led out, lynched outside of camp and buried in the rocks. Maybe the jail talk was just for show. Maybe Cassius ordered the lynching, LG didn’t know. The fact was he didn’t know any of these people.

  LG knew it was possible the stage robbers had picked up his trail — but after all this time it was unlikely. He had a good head start and made all kinds of loops in the woods. He even cut back over his own trail more than once. And now here he was, collecting eggs and milking wild cows at the Whale Mine in Weston Pass…giving some poor sucker a hard time for getting his head kicked in.

  It was time to move on. Either back down to the plains, maybe Denver, or else up to the bigger mining towns. He would like some news about the B-Cross. He didn’t know what happened after he lit out. LG suspected the crew was shot dead. There had been at least a half-dozen robbers. The boys were spread out with the cow line — if they had been together they could have made a fight out of it. LG himself managed to shoot that fellow off the stagecoach, but there was a lot of gunfire that day, and got chased off before he could see what was going on.

  Chapter 20

  Yellow Houses Pasture

  Headquarters

  XIT Ranch

  Texas

  When AG Boyce announced he was fired, BH “Barbeque” Campbell’s entire face became red and veiny.

  “I just bought several thousand head, Yellow Houses and Spring Lake pastures are packed…and you aim to fire half the XIT?”

  Barbeque Campbell stood right up in Boyce’s face. George Findlay was sitting in the buckboard watching solemnly. AL Matlock had a shotgun cradled in his arms.

  Campbell was wearing a gun — but Boyce was unarmed. That had been a point of contention between Matlock and Boyce: Boyce refused to wear a gun. He had been a Colonel in the Army and hadn’t worn a gun for several years now that the Indian threat was basically over. Boyce believed force of presence would be enough to keep things from escalating on the XIT. He served in the War and had no intention of pointing a firearm at another American in peace time. Boyce saw too much of that in the 60′s and the years that followed. However, Mr. Matlock did not feel the same. And since Matlock had been the one to examine the conditions of the XIT firsthand, he knew words alone would not be enough for men like Barbeque Campbell.

  It was late in the day, but there was still a lot
of branding going on at the corrals. They could easily hear the bawling cattle. Lee and Davis got out of the wagon and moved behind Campbell. They had their gunbelts on, too — but no one was pointing a weapon at anybody yet.

  Two men came around the corner of the house.

  “Here comes Billy Ney and Arizona Johnny,” Matlock said pointedly. “They’re on my Xmas list.”

  “What’s going on, Que?” Billy Ney shouted, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He was covered in dust and sweat. They both were. It was another hot June day in the Yellow Houses Pastures.

  “They’re firing me, Billy,” Campbell shouted back. “Cuttin’ me out. This is how they show appreciation for good hard work.”

  “It’s done, Campbell!” Matlock spoke firmly. His gray eyes were sharp.

  Campbell kept glaring at Boyce, bristling. He knew he was in a tight place. They must have watched and waited until he was far enough from his men. If they had tried this back at the branding chute, it would have played out differently. But Barbeque Campbell could see the odds were not so sunny at the moment.

  “On the authority of the members of the Chicago syndicate, we are taking charge,” Boyce announced. “You’re gone, Campbell. Ride out today.”

  “Que?” Billy shouted again. He and Arizona Johnny stopped a little ways off. They had left their guns in the bunkhouse since it was a branding day. It was too easy to lose a handgun wrestling a steer or bending over the firepit to get another iron. Billy could not believe what he was seeing.

  “Don’t you worry none, Billy.” Barbeque stared hard at Boyce. “I’ll straighten this out.”

  “Set your gun on the ground, Campbell,” Boyce instructed. “See that horse? Take it and go.”

  Barbeque Campbell eased down and set his Colt .45 on the ground. He straightened up slowly until he was eye to eye with Boyce again.

  “Get on back there, Billy!” Campbell yelled. “Go help Earl. Finish up for the day. Guess I’m not on the payroll no more.”

  Billy Ney spun around and headed back to the corral. Arizona Johnny stood there a little longer, gawking. Finally, he followed Ney, and the two of them disappeared around the corner of the ranch house.

  Barbeque Campbell set off towards the hitching post where a horse was tied to the rail, eyes half closed. Earlier, Boyce had put an old saddle on one of Campbell’s day horses. If the man rode off and kept the horse, which he undoubtedly would, it would not be a major loss considering the circumstances. It was more important to get him to leave before the rest of his men knew what was happening. Billy Ney and Arizona Johnny were getting the crew riled up at that very moment. But without Campbell to lead them in some kind of upstart, Boyce was confident the tension would ease off.

  Campbell untied the horse and climbed aboard. He walked the horse right past Matlock and Boyce, glaring down as he rode by.

  “Here’s your final pay,” Boyce said and tossed an envelope up to Campbell, who caught it and looked inside.

  “You had all this planned out. My horse…the money,” Barbeque realized. He looked up at the ranch house window and saw a figure inside. It was Rollin Larrabee, the rotund bookkeeper, watching through the curtains. Campbell pointed at him with the envelope, shaking it angrily.

  “I see you, Rollin Larrabee! You had time enough to get my pay together. You could have come out n’ warned me instead. I see where you stand!”

  “Light out…now!” Matlock demanded and pointed the shotgun directly at him.

  “Oh, I will. You high-falutin’ bastard!”

  Barbecue Campbell, former general manager of the XIT Ranch of Texas, dug his rowels into the horse’s sides and took off at a run. He loped out into the grass and headed due east. The sun was bright on his back and cast a long shadow out in front of him. Just then a group of hands came up from the corrals, predictably, led by Billy Ney and Arizona Johnny. Boyce went straight up to the group and addressed them sharply.

  “Gentlemen. I am Colonel AG Boyce, and I am managing this ranch now. What I say happens. And I say Billy Ney is no longer foreman of the Yellow Houses division. Frank Yearwood is.”

  Boyce singled out Frank Yearwood, who stepped up and shook hands with Boyce. The rest of the cowhands began chattering. Some of them, like Albert Smith and Henry Higglesworth, were clearly pleased with Yearwood’s promotion. Some were even relieved. But others threw hard looks. Billy Ney was speechless and looked around for some support.

  “I would fire you right now, Mr. Ney,” Boyce said, in everyone’s hearing. “But with the pastures so full we need hands. Prove yourself worth something, and I’ll keep you on. That goes for more than one of you here today. This is a warning against lawlessness. I will not stand for it.”

  “Thank’ya, Colonel Boyce,” Frank Yearwood said gratefully. Smith and Higglesworth came up, and they both clapped him on the shoulder. The tension melted as the group of cowboys dispersed. Mr. Matlock tucked the shotgun in the crook of his arm again.

  “These men ride for your wagon now,” Boyce told Frank. “This is a bad time to change over, I know, but it is happening.”

  “Still got a lot of hard-cases need to be run out,” Frank mentioned.

  “Keep receiving cattle,” Matlock told him. “Drive some north to the breaks in the Alamositas if you have to.”

  “After that,” Boyce added, “I plan on firing most of this whole blamed crew.”

  Chapter 21

  Arkansas River Valley

  Colorado

  “Eyelids all butterflyish,” Granger observed, bending over Vincent who was lying on the ground. “Wake up!”

  But Vincent did not wake up — although his eyelids were indeed fluttering like butterflies. Nearby, Bill sat hunched against a gritty boulder.

  “I am afraid he won’t make it to Poncha,” Bill said with a note of sadness.

  The sun had been up for an hour or so. He looked down at his old companion. They had ridden together through many rustlings, robberies and killings. But now, here they were. Vincent was dying. His face had no color, and the skin looked like it was stretched tight. Granger had been quiet for most of the ride. This was because he had been asleep in the saddle. Bill could hear his heavy slobbery breathing quite clearly as they walked their horses through the dark.

  Bill always liked traveling under the stars. Summer nights in the high desert were cold. Even though temperatures could get pretty high in the day, it always surprised him how cool it could get once the sun went down.

  Bill got to his feet and turned to face the rising sun. His hands were buried in his coat pockets. He sighed. Vincent was in bad shape. He would be dead soon. Probably within a day or so. There was no real point in riding on. Even if they made it to Poncha Springs, it would only get the local law asking questions. Why give them a reason to take interest? Bill squinted and saw a hawk gliding out in the distance. He wondered if there was a Hell. When his ma died, when Bill was just a boy, he listened intently to every word the preacher said at her funeral. He said there were Streets of Gold and Gates of Pearl up where she was going. But down below, on the wrong end of eternity, was a burning Lake of Fire. Bill glanced down at his friend. Well, Vincent — it’s the lake of fire for you, compadre.

  Granger was pressing Vincent’s palm into a prickly pear. The thorns were long and slid right into the soft flesh. It was a new source of amusement for Granger: checking on Vincent’s level of awareness. It began with finger twisting the night before. Now he was patting Vincent’s palm into a cactus. It was some measure of compensation for the mean delights Vincent had taken in regard to Granger’s own misfortunes.

  In fact, to Granger, life seemed like a series of misfortunes. Ever since he lost his first tooth to an outhouse door, he spoke with a lisp. One of Vincent’s mean delights had been poking fun at Granger’s lisp. Then after Will Wyllis banged open the mining shack door, the ribbings got even worse. Two missing teeth made everything he said come out with a whistle. Vincent found that endlessly amusing. It sorely aggravate
d Granger. He hated to be made sport of. And now, look! Sweet recompense.

  It was quite an enjoyable thing. Although it would be much more gratifying if Vincent was just a little bit lucid — so he could feel the pain Granger was inflicting. Maybe he could. Maybe somewhere deep down in there, even though he was unconscious, Vincent could feel the cactus thorns working into his palm.

  “We’re not riding further,” Bill declared and took a small spade from his saddle. “Put up a rope corral and turn these horses out. Set up camp.”

  “Okay, Bill,” Granger said plaintively. He decided not to irk Bill, in light of his sad demeanor. Of course, Granger himself was quite giddy over the fact Vincent was dying. The two had never gotten along. Perhaps, Granger supposed, Bill would be kinder to Granger now — once Vincent gave up the ghost.

  “Gonna dig a grave. When I get back, help me move him up there.”

  Bill took off his coat knowing he would warm up quickly once he started to dig. Unbuckling his gunbelt, Bill stacked all his gear in the shade of a cedar. He took a canteen, a bottle of whiskey and the spade and made his way up a long low hill.

  The sky was blue and cloudless. It was going to be a hot day. Once Bill hiked up the hill, the ground leveled into a wide plateau that stretched off towards several low, broken bluffs. Bill spotted a lone piñon tree ringed by cholla, not too far out there. The cactus had little yellow flowers budding on its tips. With all the pretty yellow flowers, Bill figured this would be as nice a place as any.

  At least there was a little shade under the tree to work in. Bill set the whiskey and the canteen in the hook of the roots. He stuck the spade in the ground and was glad to find the soil was not too dense. It was a little rocky, but he managed to dig down. The grave needed to be several feet deep at least, to keep the wild animals from digging him right back up.