by Mark Mitten
As he shoveled, Bill really began to feel blue. This could just as easily be his own grave. He stopped digging and used the spade like a crutch, resting in the morning sunlight. Bill was getting tired. Tired of the lawlessness which had been his life for so long. It was starting to seem like the right time to turn his life around. He didn’t want to die in an unmarked grave in the high desert of Colorado — like Vincent, anonymous and forgotten. It wouldn’t take much to change things. All he had to do now was get loose of Granger. Perhaps he would dig two graves.
Chapter 22
“Don’t grab my waist, Mary,” Charley Crouse said, irritated. “Hold onto the cantle or you’ll be afoot.”
“Don’t call me Mary,” Caverango retorted. “This caballo es bumpy.”
Caverango was sitting behind the saddle, straddling the gelding’s spiny croup and rocking uncomfortably with each step. He found it was much more effective to cling to Charley’s waist than it was to pinch-grip the cantle or hold onto the tie strings. He had experimented with both, but when the trail got rough he realized it was safer to just grab onto Charley. But Charley Crouse did not like it when another man rode behind him. It made him feel awkward — and made him want to harm that person. Which was how he felt right then.
They were last in the line. They were following two other horses, which were also doubled up with riders. Peter Mulock sat behind his older brother Edson on an unlucky quarter horse. A lemon-faced ranch hand named Whitey Jones rode unhappily behind the eldest Mulock son, Parker, on a big Percheron cross. The haunches on the draft were beefier than a regular sized horse, and Whitey was feeling all stretched out. It wasn’t natural and he was not enjoying himself. Whitey felt it was an indignity to have two cowboys ride on one horse. That morning, he started out on foot…until the sun came up and the temperature soared. It got too hot to walk.
In the lead — alone on his own horse — rode the family patriarch, Mr. Mulock.
And his face was grim.
“Shut the hell up, would you!” Parker shouted over his shoulder. He rode directly behind his father, studying the man’s posture. He was worried his father was about to erupt. The man had a violent temper, and Parker knew what they were in for, should he erupt.
The Mulock boys had been raised under that temper and learned early to watch their step in times like this. Edson and Peter were keenly aware of the situation, too, and only muttered to each other in whispers. And of course Whitey knew his place in the pecking order, which happened to be near the bottom.
They had to wait for the sun before they could follow the tracks. It had not been too difficult once it was light enough to see. The hoofprints were of course unique and easy to spot. Every shoe was different to begin with and left its own distinct impression — but things were even easier since Mulock had employed the same blacksmith for the past twelve years. The blacksmith always punched the same kind and number of nail holes. In addition to all this, no one had been on this part of the trail except the horse thieves. Mulock was confident they would recover their stock before noon.
As it was, it was nearing noon. Whitey Jones had a look of extreme discomfort on his face and held one hand over his crotch. Over the last hour he had taken to moaning gingerly about his “bull scrote.” Parker tried shushing him but found it increasingly difficult.
The tension Parker was feeling had started when they woke up to three horses missing. Between his father’s mercurial brooding, Charley’s complaints and Whitey’s sensitivities, Parker wished mightily he had stayed home the day before.
His father’s bank, The Cañon City Bank, was on the brink. But no one knew it yet —certainly not the clientele or the investors. It was a house of cards, Parker realized, and just a matter of time before it all fell down. As the firstborn, it was his lot to take the reins when his father got too old. So he was learning the business. Unfortunately, what he was learning was not good. And it had become clear to Parker that his hard-handed father was not interested in doing right by the bank.
Mulock’s nephew and the bank’s cashier, the one and the same Augustus Gaumer, was caught up in it, too, thick as thieves. Parker’s main concern was a community hanging. The ranchers in South Park were stout and not easily taken by scheme or swayed by dysfunction. Hell, they hung their neighbor Ed Watkins for cattle rustling right there in Cañon City back in ’83. That was only five years ago, and it could happen again.
“There,” Mr. Mulock said, pointing.
Up ahead they could see the three stolen horses. They had been led off trail about a hundred yards and corralled in a stand of cedar trees. There were two men lying on the ground. One was napping in the shade. The other was sprawled in the hot dirt with his hand stuck in a patch of prickly pear.
Mulock looked up. The sun was overhead, and it was indeed the noon hour. Just as he figured it would be. Mulock liked to be precise. He liked to be right. What he did not like was horse thieves. He started to pull his rifle from the saddle scabbard, but then eased it back into place. This could be done up close. Mulock pulled out his .45 and cocked it. His eyes glinted with a certain satisfaction. With a tap of his heels, he walked his horse right into camp. The others followed behind and spread out.
Granger was having a nice nap. He was tucked up in a shady spot with his hat pulled down over his eyes. He was having a pleasant dream where he owned a cantina. His teeth were all there, and he had neither lisp nor whistle when he spoke. He served whiskey, tequila and beer —all with a nice, unbroken smile. There was even a special bottle of high-end whiskey hidden in the back room for his favorite customers. Both Vincent and Bill were dead in his dream. Their bodies had been embalmed and were propped up on each side of the room. Granger liked to take shots at them, even though it was loud when a gun went off indoors. He always aimed for their teeth. Both Bill and Vincent had many holes in their heads. It was a nice dream.
Chapter 23
It was Vincent and Granger! Charley Crouse could not believe his eyes. He started to hoot and almost did. But then he realized it would not be wise to have Mr. Mulock associate him with two horse thieves. It was better to keep quiet about that. It had been a shaky process getting in with the old man to begin with — and it was still awful shaky ground to be standing on as it was. Charley did not need the pall of horse thievery to complicate the situation. He twisted in the saddle and gave Caverango a sharp glare to keep him quiet.
Caverango had never felt any particular affinity for either Granger or Vincent anyhow. In fact, Caverango was realizing how little he cared for the entire Grand Lake Gang and wished he could get away from Charley Crouse especially. And the Mulock clan was another dark pool that he wanted less of. But Caverango knew it was all about good timing. He was hoping once they got into Cañon City he could simply fade into the crowd and disappear. He felt he had a better chance at slipping away where there were a lot of people. Over the past few days, Caverango began to daydream constantly about sipping cervezas in Santa Fe.
Mulock took his horse over to where Vincent was laying. There was a smoldering campfire and a coffee pot in the coals. Saddles were strewn about, and there were bedrolls and coats piled in a heap. Looking around, he realized these two men hadn’t even considered they would be tracked. They were bedded down right off the main trail, and certainly had not ridden far or fast with Mulock’s horses. They were fools.
The man on the ground was clearly in no shape to travel. Maybe this was why they hadn’t made a run for it during the night. He glanced over to Granger, who was still sleeping beneath his shady cedar tree. Mulock changed his mind again, uncocked the .45 and hooked it in his belt for safe keeping. Then he leaned over and eased out his Winchester after all. It would make a bigger hole.
“Bo-peep!” Mulock called out and pulled the trigger.
Vincent’s body shuddered with the impact. His chest blew wide open and blood and bone spattered up in the air. The noisy blast jolted Granger out of his nice dream. He scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could.
His hat fell off, and he squinted up to see Mr. Mulock pointing the rifle his way now.
Granger froze. Vincent was clearly dead as a stick. Granger hoped that somewhere deep down, before his soul fluttered away, Vincent felt the pain of being fatally blasted. Along with that prickly pear Granger stomped into his hand. It would be sad if Vincent got away without feeling any of those things.
“You stole them horses,” Mulock stated grimly.
“Now, no, sir…”
Granger started to lie. He began working up a tale in his mind that might make sense. He didn’t steal them — he was a prisoner himself and had been forced to steal them. Maybe even salt in some of the truth: they had money. A hundred thousand dollars! And Granger would give some of it to the old man. Hell, all of them could have a decent cut. Then Granger noticed the rest of the riders. He saw the Mulock brothers doubled up on horseback. And Whitey Jones and Parker on the Percheron cross. He knew these fellows must be mad as hornets — and mad at him in particular since he was the one who stole their horses. Of course, they didn’t know the finer details yet.
Then Granger realized he was looking right at Charley Crouse and Caverango on the gelding with the spiny croup.
“Well, I’ll be!”
Charley knew the moment it registered in Granger’s brain. The scalawag was a slow thinker, which of course made him a prime target for razzing when they rode together and of course Charley razzed the man incessantly. But his slow thinking was a liability now and they no longer rode together anyway. Charley promptly drew his own Colt and shot Granger smack in the eye.
Granger wobbled and stumbled backwards into the shady cedar. His sleeves got snagged in the branches as he waved about. They watched the life go out of him.
Granger sagged dead in the tree, hanging like a scarecrow.
Slowly, Mr. Mulock turned around and fixed his stern gaze on Charley. The Mulock boys were in a state of absolute shock. They simply couldn’t believe a green hand would presumptuously intervene in their father’s affairs. Surely, there would be hell to pay! All three of them held their breath, and so did Whitey Jones — who also held his “bull scrote.”
Charley Crouse holstered his gun and casually slouched in the saddle, crossing his forearms over the saddle horn as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Mulock sat silently for a moment and studied him closely.
Charley could not tell what the man was going to do. In Charley’s short experience with Mr. Mulock, he knew this could go either way. Suddenly Mulock let out a guffaw. Then he glared at his sons who seemed frozen in place.
“What are you waiting for? Fiery chariots whirlin’ down from the sky? Go get your damn horses!”
Whitey Jones immediately slid off the big draft and hit the ground hard, flat on his boots. He danced around for a minute like a chimpanzee.
“Yow! My feet are all tingly!”
Edson and Caverango dismounted with more care. As soon as the Mexican was down, Charley Crouse let out a sigh of relief. He was glad to have his horse all to himself again. There was nothing worse than backriding with a greasy bean-eater. If Mr. Mulock hadn’t insisted, it never would have happened. And Charley knew better than to underestimate the old rancher. There was something in his look that made Charley hesitant to overstep.
“Pa! There’s cash money in here!” Edson exclaimed. He knelt down to pick up one of the saddles…and noticed the bulky saddlebags.
Immediately, Mr. Mulock slid off his own horse and hustled straight over. He pushed his son aside roughly and flung open the saddle bag. Sure enough, there was nothing but cash inside. Glancing around at the other saddles, he noticed they all had abnormally swollen saddle bags.
“Boys,” Mulock said. “There’s more money here than I can count.”
Parker was astonished at the find. His mind reeled. This was an unexpected turn of events. They had been headed to the Cañon City Bank before their horses were stolen — Parker was sure it was more than just a business visit. He suspected his father planned on cleaning out the vault, taking George Green’s money and riding south. But this could save the bank! Between the cash-filled saddle bags and the fifty thousand Green had deposited for selling the 63 Ranch, the bank might actually stabilize and pull through.
“Pa, this sure will get us out of a hole. With Green’s money and this right here, the bank will be okay!”
And no one will get hung, Parker added silently.
With a dry laugh, Mulock shook his head at his good fortune. He glanced up at his oldest son. So naive. The boy had no sand — Parker wouldn’t make it in Mexico. He had too much of a conscience. He should have learned to beat that down, but if he hadn’t figured it out by now it was too late in the game. I’ll give him the ranch, Mulock thought. That’ll be something at least.
The patriarch of the Mulock clan put a foot in the stirrup and got back on his horse. He was feeling quite pleased now. When he woke up to three stolen horses, he felt Lady Luck was standing hard against him. He was even rethinking his plan to take Green’s money and ride off to Mexico. But he was not rethinking anything anymore. And now he had twice as much on top of that. Seems Lady Luck was on his side again.
Chapter 24
When Bill saw the shooting star, he thought it was a sign.
Lying flat out in the bottom of the grave, all Bill could see was the star-filled sky. Lying in a grave that he had dug himself was not an irony he appreciated. The spade lay across his chest. His fingers were cramped from holding onto it for so long. Like the greatest of fools, his guns were back at camp — but the spade would work well enough if anyone happened to peer into the grave. He might chop out a throat before getting shot.
Astrology was not Bill’s forte. But that shooting star seemed to wake him up. Like it was telling him it was safe now. Someone upstairs was letting him know. Well, maybe.
From the bottom of the hole he could see nothing but rolling constellations and one silhouetted branch reaching out overhead, from the piñon pine growing nearby. The sun was long gone. He had watched it creep across the sky all day. At first, he checked his new pocketwatch every few minutes but that just made the sun creep slower. He gave up on that. Then, it finally grew dark and the stars began glimmering in the dusk.
The gunshots had been loud. The first one was a rifle, the second a sixgun. Bill knew immediately that the shots came from camp. And it did not take much rational thought to stitch the scene together. Vincent was an invalid and plainly ineffective in a gunfight. Granger was just a plain dummy. And now someone had done them in. Probably, it was the cowboys they stole the horses from. Another thing Bill noticed: the shots had been spaced out, unhurried. Which meant it was an execution — not a gunfight. They had been fools not to watch their backtrail, obscure the camp, or just ride as far as those damn horses would take them.
Bill’s sense of self-preservation had been clouded by his emotions. It was one of those moments of neglectfulness…a lapse in judgment. Like Wild Bill Hickock, who just that one time took a seat at the poker table with his back to the door. For Bill Ewing, worry about an old amigo had blighted his rational mind. It could have cost Bill his life. If he had dallied around camp any longer, he might have been gunned down himself.
When he heard the two shots Bill instantly knew he was in a bind. He wasted no time and slid right down into the grave. It was gambly but what better options were there?
He had the whiskey, at least. It helped pass the day.
There were some coyotes yipping somewhere in the dark. They may have caught a jackrabbit. That was how Bill felt all day. Like he had been boxed in by a pack of coyotes, waiting for that final moment.
He sat up and peered into the darkness. There were no lights or fires that he could see. The camp was just down over the rise a stone’s throw away. He hadn’t heard a thing since around noon. Not even a horse whinny. Of course, he did not really expect to. They probably took everything after shooting his crew. At least they hadn’t been diligent enough t
o notice there had been three horses…but only two men in camp.
It did not take long to walk back. Bill went along softly. He suspected the danger had passed — but he didn’t want to make the same mistake again. He didn’t want to walk into a bunch of angry cowboys with rifles and sixguns.
The starlight was bright enough that he could see down the short slope. The cedars and piñon pine were opaque black blobs which could easily conceal a man with a rifle. Bill himself took to the deep shadows, stepping from tree to tree quickly and quietly.
Vincent’s body was easy to spot. It was lying where he left it. Bill could smell the blood and hear some flies buzzing around, even well into the night like this. Granger, on the other hand, was harder to spot. Bill almost jumped out of his skin when he stepped near the cedar where Granger was snagged — arms up like a ghoul.
“Aces and eights,” Bill muttered. “Guess I drew a better hand than you boys.”
All the horses were gone. So were his guns, his coat, and pretty much everything except the coffee pot which was still sitting in the charred coals. That hundred thousand was gone, naturally. Bill sloshed the flat coffee around and took a sip.
Chapter 25
Leadville
The cigar was so rich Casey felt his head starting to spin. He held it at arm’s length and studied it. It was barely a quarter of the way burnt down and moving along very slowly. This was going to be a long evening. Maybe if I pace myself, he thought, I can get this thing used up.
Horace Tabor was working on his like it was made of candy, and so were Prescott Sloan and Ben Loeb — introduced to Casey at dinner as The Famed Entrepreneur Benjamin Loeb. Of course, Casey heard the man’s name almost every time he rode into town. The man was an icon of wicked sins and ran the most talked-about bawdy house in Leadville. His black hair, thinning but not as far gone as Tabor’s, was slicked down. He certainly looked the role of the deviant manchild, and Casey was uneasy trying to make conversation.
