Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  They did get a small bed of coals going…just big enough to heat a coffee pot and warm some canned chili.

  “Chuckwagon be waiting for us up yonder a’ways,” Frank mentioned. “Get a real meal in you all, tomorrow night.”

  He dug out the can opener and started notching off lids.

  Chapter 28

  Frank sat straight up. He flung off his old wool blanket and froze stock-still. He cocked his head a bit and listened.

  It was pitch black and there was no moon and there should have been. The stars were gone. He couldn’t see a thing.

  Then the sky lit up bright — so bright he had to squint, and the landscape was bathed in black and white. Boom. The sound split the sky and made his chest hurt and his head ring.

  Frank got up as quick as he could get to his feet. He grabbed the wool blanket and ran a few steps.

  White light exploded again and he didn’t need to see to know what was coming…he could feel it. Above the throbbing in his chest and the dull humming in his ears, the drum of the running herd shook right up his legs.

  “Huh-yaw! Go on! Go on!”

  Frank made as much noise as he could and waved the hell out of that blanket.

  Lee and Davis both jumped out of their bedrolls, slapping around frantically for their boots.

  The steers came running.

  Loose of their wits and barreling along blindly, the herd parted around Frank and poured past their camp. The noise consumed Frank’s shouts, but he kept yelling and waving the wool blanket. Dust was everywhere and all he could hear were horns clanking and hooves pounding and bellows and snorts as they all blew by.

  Davis’s horse was thrashing around on his side, feet kicking at the air — he was still hobbled. He wasn’t hurt, but tripped himself when he spooked. As luck had it, he had been standing in rein’s grasp from Davis’s bedroll and was safe from being trampled by the cattle. Davis was hunched over his horse cooing easy easy, trying to grab those reins without getting struck in the face by a hoof.

  Lee’s horse was gone. He had staked his horse, and in the chaos it must have pulled up the stake and ran.

  The steers were gone now and the danger along with it. Frank put his fingers in his mouth and let out a long sharp whistle.

  His bay whinnied, out in the dark.

  Frank went out looking, and it didn’t take long to find the horse. Then he was up in the saddle tearing across the prairie in the pitch black.

  His eyes couldn’t adjust to the dark with the electric sky cutting apart every few seconds. Frank’s ears were ringing pretty good, but it helped that he could see where the herd was.

  In one burst of brightness, he caught sight of Davis riding wildly ahead of him, chasing after the herd.

  Ten minutes of hard riding passed before Davis realized Frank was behind him. That was all he needed. He knew he wasn’t alone out there and figured, between the two of them, they could turn this herd in. Quirting his horse, Davis pushed to get up with the lead steers.

  Leaning into it and hoping his horse wouldn’t trip up, Davis rode up alongside the stampede.

  In what light he had, he could see the leaders a short distance up ahead. But in that light he also saw them go off into an arroyo. They just disappeared — right off the edge. So did the steers following them. They just plowed right over.

  Davis snapped his reins and leaned back hard into the saddle, angling away from the herd as he did, in a wide arc. White slobber strung off his horse’s bit, eyes wide and mane waving.

  The sky lit up again. The ground shook with it. Davis managed to get his horse stopped but he looked on, horrified.

  The stampede was a dozen animals across at its widest — but they just charged on, following the tails of the steers in front of them. Row by row, they dropped out of sight like dominoes off the edge of a table.

  “O mercy!” Davis shouted. He sat there, aghast.

  Frank Yearwood pulled up next to him, and they both sat their saddles watching with every lightning pop. The noise was loud — the thunder and the rush of the herd. Being so close to the arroyo, they could hear the sickening thud of cowflesh.

  Davis could not believe his eyes.

  “What the Sam Hill!” Davis cried.

  He pulled his hat off and whipped it helplessly across his thigh. His heart was pounding.

  Then the stampede was running on. Past the arroyo. On the far side.

  And on into the night.

  Frank shook his head slowly, his face set. He said nothing.

  The sound of the running herd faded with the distance.

  Maybe Frank had seen this before, but Davis never had seen anything like it. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The draw was full of dead steers. Full of them. They piled right on top of each other, right on up till it was so full of dead steers the rest of the herd ran right across to the other side and kept on going.

  “Sakes alive,” Davis spoke softly. His voice was raw from the hard run and all the dust he breathed in. “Sakes alive.”

  Chapter 29

  “Like Moses,” Lee said and raised his arms up. “Partin’ the Red Sea.”

  The other cowhands were milling about the chuckwagon eating black beans, beefsteak and dried banana chips. The fire beneath the potrack was smoldering. A dutch oven was seated in the gray dust and chunks of smoldering manure. The lid was off and half the sourdough biscuits were gone.

  Frank Yearwood knelt down and plucked out a second biscuit. He had missed breakfast — they all had, riding after the herd like they did. By the time dawn came around all the riders regrouped and crossed the draw. It took a while to catch up with the loose herd. By then the stampede had ended all by itself, and the steers were grazing. The riders swung out in a wide loop and brought them back together again — and now here they were, eating biscuits.

  “We would have been trampled to bits, Frank,” Davis said solemnly. “Owe you one.”

  Some of the hands wore permanent scowls, ever since the week before. Barbeque Campbell may have been gone, but he still had a good number of loyal men in the crew. Frank knew it and could tell who was with him and who was against him. No one had to guess that Arizona Johnny and Billy Ney were against him. They weren’t with him in spirit…and that morning they weren’t with him in person, either.

  Frank looked around the group.

  “Johnny or Ney turn up yet?”

  Albert Smith and Henry Higglesworth were two good men. They stood by, tiredly spooning up black beans.

  “Ain’t seen ‘em yet, Frank,” Albert said.

  “That storm rolled in on their watch,” Henry muttered. He was salty. Most of them were. The entire experience put them in a sour mood.

  “Maybe they got it,” Albert suggested. “Run down to pieces.”

  “Well, ain’t seen their horses around though,” said Frank. “Probably still in the saddle.”

  “Squally night. Mebbe they just rode off,” Henry added, walking his fingers in the air. “Simple as that.”

  A sea gull flew over the chuckwagon. Davis craned his neck and watched in wonder as the bird floated slowly overhead. It was the top of Texas in a late summer drought and there wasn’t any sea for a thousand miles, but look at that. A sea gull. Circling over the chuckwagon.

  One of the new young hands, Kenyon, rode in and got off his horse. He stepped up to Frank and pointed off across the low grass.

  “I believe that’s Arizona Johnny, sir.”

  They all turned and watched him ride in.

  “Sun’abitch!” Arizona Johnny snarled as he parked his horse by the chuckwagon. “Them cows busted loose, and it ain’t my fault, Frank! Ain’t my fault on that!”

  He slid off and hit the ground hard. He marched over, shaking his fist toward Lee and Davis.

  “Boyce’s crew! Saw you light a cigarette, you sun’abitch! It was one of you.”

  Arizona Johnny was fuming. His face was flushed.

  “Where you been, Johnny?” Frank asked and frowned.
“Needed every hand we had to bring them steers in this AM. And I could’a used both you and Ney. Where is he?”

  “Oh, you think it was on our watch, so it must o’ been us, don’t you?” Arizona Johnny spat at the ground, his eyes narrowing. “This ain’t on my back, Yearwood!”

  “Didn’t strike no match,” Davis stated firmly.

  “Didn’t strike no match neither,” Lee added, just as firmly.

  Johnny’s face wound up tight and he glared at Lee.

  “Boy, I’ll fix your flint.”

  Spinning away from Frank, Arizona Johnny took two quick steps and lashed out with his fist. It landed hard in Lee’s chest. He fell in the grass, his plate went flying, and beefsteak and black beans splattered down his pants.

  Tossing his own feed plate aside, Davis charged and tackled Arizona Johnny around the waist. But Johnny did not go down. He made fists out of both hands and swung them down hard on Davis’s back. The wind whooshed out, but he did not let go.

  Then Arizona Johnny produced a small knife from somewhere and jabbed it into Davis’s back. He pulled it out and stuck him several more times before Frank could get there.

  “No more o’ this nonsense!” Frank growled. He drew his handgun and thunked Arizona Johnny on the head with the gun butt.

  Dropping wobbly to his knees, Johnny let the knife fall out of his hand. Davis slid to the ground, face first. Blood oozed from his back in several places. Then he rolled over to face the sky, wheezing.

  Henry, Albert, Kenyon and the cookie were all standing at the chuckwagon, watching. Cookie was holding his own plate of bean-soaked biscuits, his fork halfway to his mouth. He just held it there, watching the fight.

  Lee scrambled to his feet and went to check on Davis. He pressed his neckerchief over the worst of the wounds to soak up the blood. Arizona Johnny hunched over and pressed his hands to his head.

  “Don’t get your dander up, Johnny,” Frank told him. “No one lit no match. It was lightning that spooked that herd.”

  “You know all there is to know, don’t you, Yearwood?”

  Looking pained, Arizona Johnny got up and slowly angled toward the chuckwagon. He strutted past the men standing there — past Henry, Albert, and Kenyon — eyeing them toughly as he went by. Arizona Johnny paused in front of the cook. He grabbed the plate right out of the man’s hand. Cookie just handed over his fork without saying anything.

  “Hell, Frank,” Johnny said, chewing with his mouth open. “You in Boyce’s pocket, huh? Course I knowed that. Need to hash this out?”

  Frank held up his Colt.

  “I’m heeled,” Frank pointed out, waving the gun a little. “We can hash this out.”

  Johnny plucked up a bean-sopped biscuit. It was a big bite, and he stood there chewing for a long moment, looking like a coiled snake. Frank sighed. He undid the hammer and holstered the handgun.

  “Just get on outta here, Johnny. Go cash out at headquarters. You’re done for. Tell Billy Ney the same. I don’t want to see neither one of you again.”

  Davis lay on the ground, his breathing was labored, but his eyes were clear. He glared at Johnny but did not speak or try to move. He was hurting pretty bad.

  “Know what,” Johnny said finally. “Sick o’ this shit.”

  He pressed the plate flat against the cook’s chest, smearing black beans and sauce across his chest. The plate peeled off his shirt and fell to the grass. The cook did not move an inch.

  Arizona Johnny put a foot in the stirrup and pulled up heavily onto his horse. Sitting up straight, he grabbed the reins and clicked his tongue.

  “Boyce thinks he’s got Barbeque all tidied up. Boy, he gonna kick up a row a’fore this is all done.”

  And with that they watched Arizona Johnny ride off into the afternoon. The sun was overhead, pale yellow and hot. It was another dry August day in northern Texas. All that lightning and wind…and no rain came of it.

  “Well, I’ll be,” remarked Albert Smith.

  He went over to help Davis. Together with Lee, the two of them got Davis up to his feet. Albert checked him over. Davis was certainly in pain, but the stabs were not all that deep really. He knew the man was going to be sore for a few days. Blood had been spilled, but he would heal up.

  Chapter 30

  Hartsel Ranch

  South Park

  Samuel Hartsel’s hairline was pretty much gone up top. What was left was short-cropped and white, and so was his neatly trimmed beard. But his eyes were dark and sharp. He also stood a little too close to LG when he spoke.

  “Shorthorns — the whole herd,” Sam Hartsel told him proudly. “Purebred. What do you think about that, sir?”

  “Why, that makes good sense,” LG replied. “Pure stock makes for high quality beeves, and high quality beeves makes for a purty penny.”

  “You understand what we’re about, then.”

  When LG rode in to Hay Ranch earlier in the week, Til informed LG all about Sam Hartsel’s operation and his theories on pureblood stock. Til was aiming to try the same thing, he said. Sam Hartsel was working on it. Charles Goodnight was working on it. And it did seem to make good sense — LG could get on board. As long as he had cattle to punch and a horse to ride, LG was game for anything. It sure had been good to see the old B-Cross crew. Til, Emmanuel…and even the McSpookies.

  Mr. Hartsel leaned in even closer to emphasize what he was saying. He was well above LG in height, thin framed and stern in opinion.

  “I was the first rancher here in the Park. Bought up 160 acres, right here between the two forks of the South Platte. All started with just twenty head. In ’64, boy, there was no one around and I could graze ‘em up and down the Park without worrying…without worrying about cross-breeding, you see.”

  LG realized he was in for a sermon. But he was expecting it, after talking to Til. LG knew it was wise to pay attention if he hoped to sign on. The Hartsel Ranch was a crossroads of sorts, and that’s what LG wanted. The Whale Mine had worn him down quick. There was nothing to do up there but drink and gamble and listen to the same miners prattle on about the same pipe dreams night after night.

  “Then I went and bought me a hundred and fifty more. Two bulls and the rest were cows. Brought them in from Missour’uh myself. Took time. Took persistence, you see. Built this place up. Sawmill. Hotel. Blacksmith. Wagon shop and trading post. They all come right through here, yes they do. From Currant Creek Pass to Wilkerson, they all roll through here. Still do, you see.”

  Hartsel put both his hands on LG’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

  “Then my brother disappeared. Found the skeleton under a tree — his horse too, all bone-dry and crumpled in. Lightning, you see. Struck him dead. Then a tich later, I got took by Cheyennes. Killers. Not like the Utes, you see. But a little ingenuity got me shut of that situation.”

  “I see,” LG said.

  Nodding, he wondered where this was all going. LG was good at talking, but not so good at listening, and had to force himself to. And Sam Hartsel was a man who could fill up a room all by himself. Maybe even more so than LG.

  “Then ranchers started moving into the Park: cows, horses, a few grangers. And the plagues! Locusts in ’74. Grasshoppers in ’76. Know how many cows are grazing out there right now? Fifty thousand! Fifty thousand cows…and there’s thousands of horses and sheep, too. Sheep! Used to be a time when I had all the grazing land I needed, and keeping pure stock pure was cherry pie. Does it sound like cherry pie to you?”

  “No, sir. No, sir, it does not.”

  “Well, hell if it is. ’Cuz it ain’t. This ain’t cherry pie. But I aim to keep them Shorthorns pure, young man. If even one of them low breed bulls gets to poking around in one of my pastures, there will be hell to pay I can assure you.”

  By that time, Sam Hartsel was leaning heavily on LG’s shoulders. He looked at LG closely, studying him, as if he could see right into his mind. The man must have seen what he was looking for, because Hartsel’s face suddenly relaxed
and he grinned softly. He unclamped his shoulders and LG felt like a spell had been broken.

  “I’ll cut you $2.75 a day. Plenty of good chow here, only the best. Eat all you want, and you get a nice room in the yellow wing all to yourself.”

  Then Hartsel snapped his fingers as if he just thought of another selling point.

  “And we’ve got hot running water. You heard me. We pipe it straight inside the house from the hot spring. Get you a warm bath every night if you want it. How about that now?”

  LG realized he had the job. He took off his big hat and ran his fingers through his crusty hair. It had been awhile since he had bathed at all, let alone in warm water.

  “Shoot, I may never leave.”

  Hartsel chuckled and clapped his hands. He looked past LG and spotted a stagecoach coming across the low grassy hills. He immediately set off towards the hotel. LG turned around to see what he was looking at. The coach was just a speck heading right toward them, pitching up a dusty cloud.

  Hartsel waved without looking at him.

  “Got customers, I best head in. Keep them Shorthorns pure!”

  The hotel door closed with a bang, and LG was left to figure out what was next. He could smell the river and hear it bubbling by. The cattle were grazing on the far side. It wasn’t a bad place to be. Better than milking and collecting eggs for $1.50 a day. Now he was heading up Sam Hartsel’s stock operation for nearly twice that — plus hot baths and free sit-down meals.

  Taking a look around, LG took it all in. There was the hotel and trading post. He could hear someone hammering away in the wagon shop, and smoke puffed out of the blacksmith’s. A sizable group of folks were strung about, coming and going on the wide thorough way. Freighters, passengers, cowboys. LG could even see a railroad grade. Two pretty ladies walked by in colorful skirts and carried shade umbrellas. Yes, this was a bit more his style.