Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  “I expect so.”

  “Well, this is Boyce’s show now. I never wanted to head this thing up. Let’s go see what he wants to do.”

  Together, they went back into the great room. Boyce looked Davis over, assessing his condition and abilities. He took one last sip of coffee and set the cup on the table.

  “It’s time to see to these aggravators.”

  Boyce went to the front door and opened it wide, stepping out into the morning air.

  Matlock came out right behind him, followed by Findlay and Davis.

  Boyce went on down the stairs while the other three fanned out along the porch — facing down Barbeque Campbell and his ten gunmen. Barbeque Campbell was in the middle of the line, five men to each side. He slouched in the saddle and wore a snide complexion.

  “Looky here, fellers. The bruisers finally come out to play. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  AG Boyce stepped directly in front of Campbell’s horse, arms crossed. Matlock rested his palm on the grip of his .45. Findlay stood quietly, while Davis took several slow steps further down the porch.

  “What in God’s name are you up to, Campbell?” said Boyce. “I told you to ride out.”

  Campbell saw Boyce was not armed, so he trained his attention on Matlock.

  “Here to end your administration, Matlock. Don’t need a damned lawyer telling seasoned cowmen how to run cattle,” Campbell called. “I’m still range boss to these boys.”

  “You ain’t range boss to anyone now,” Matlock replied sharply.

  “He is too range boss!” Arizona Johnny said, lamely.

  Matlock looked over at Billy Ney who wore his classic condescending leer. Matlock knew that look. He hated that look.

  “Should’ve let them hang you back in Vernon, you skunk.”

  “Prob’ly,” Billy replied.

  “Got the bulge on y’all,” Arizona Johnny said, bristling. “Would think you might take more kindly with your words. What with the numbers on our side. Make ‘em dig their own graves, Cue!”

  “Ride out now and we won’t cut you down,” Matlock told them.

  Laughter rippled up and down the line. Barbeque Campbell made a show of rubbing his eyes as if to clear the sleep out.

  “Wake up, Matlock! I knowed we snuck up on you right early, but come now! Crawl outta your bedroll. Open your eyes. Fireworks are about to pop and you should be awake for the show.”

  Boyce stood still, watching the riders laugh at them. They had the advantage and they knew it: eleven to four. Campbell looked like the cat that ate the canary.

  “Know what I figure? This whole outfit is mine…you and Boyce ain’t got no play here. You been meddling and I seen enough!”

  Leaning his arms across the saddle horn, Campbell’s eyes narrowed.

  “You’re a damn meddler, Matlock. And I don’t kin to no damn meddlers.”

  He smirked again.

  “And no gotch-eared Colonel’s,” he added, and spat at Boyce who was standing in spitting range. It splatted onto Boyce’s vest. All ten gunmen broke into laughter and Campbell smile devilishly.

  That was enough for Colonel AG Boyce. His face went dark and he took three quick steps towards Campbell’s horse, reached up and pulled him directly out of the saddle. Campbell was a large heavy man, but Boyce had a lot of sinewy strength and Campbell came off like he was made of straw.

  He hit the dirt hard, which knocked the wind right out of him. Barbeque Campbell laid flat on the ground and not one of his gunmen moved or even made a sound. Except Billy Ney, who pulled out a .45.

  “Drop that gun!” Findlay shouted grimly.

  Findlay had his gun out as soon as Boyce went for Campbell. Davis leveled his shotgun on the crew at the same moment. Matlock drew two Colts and held his arms out straight, pointing one at Arizona Johnny and the other at Billy Ney.

  Campbell’s men were shocked. They just sat their horses. Seeing the way Matlock was staring at him, Billy Ney immediately dropped his own gun in the dirt.

  Arizona Johnny blanched. He was amazed. He couldn’t believe that a man as small as AG Boyce had the capability to yank a big man like Barbeque around like that. Campbell had always been a force of nature in Johnny’s mind. It was hard to comprehend, seeing Boyce make such short work of him.

  In the silence, they could all hear the sound of AG Boyce pounding Barbeque Campbell’s face with his fist, repeatedly. After the first few swings, his knuckles came up bloody. It became clear after a few moments that Boyce was not stopping. Matlock, a little surprised himself at Boyce’s fury, tried to call him off.

  “Colonel!” Matlock shouted, his guns still pointed at Arizona Johnny and Billy Ney. “Colonel!”

  Boyce stopped pounding Campbell. He was breathing heavily from the effort but the trance was broken. He glared up at Matlock, then around at the horsemen. He looked at his bloody knuckles and wiped them slowly on Barbeque Campbell’s shirt.

  “Get him out o’ here,” he muttered.

  Two of Campbell’s crew dismounted and hoisted their beaten leader to his feet. His face was ground up nicely and his nose was angled crookedly.

  “Bunged him up good!” one noted mildly. It was more of an observation than an objection. He found himself on the ground, eye to eye with Boyce — and the man still looked pretty volatile. They moved quickly to get Campbell up across his horse.

  “I would suggest riding out immediately,” Matlock announced.

  They took to their stirrups and got back on their horses without any talk.

  “If I see any one of you inside an XIT fence,” Boyce told them, “I will have you shot dead.”

  He walked in front of all their horses, studying them one by one. Boyce’s voice was low.

  “You are a sorry lot. Maverickers and brand-burners. Gamblers. I will forget neither your faces, nor what has transpired here today.”

  AL Matlock and George Findlay and Davis watched over the riders from the ranch house porch. The three of them kept their guns aimed as Boyce walked down the line. When he was satisfied, he pointed at the horizon.

  “Get out of my sight!”

  Chapter 10

  Leadville

  The day Casey finally got the roof in place, he made a big show of picking Julianna up and carrying her right through the front door. Breaking down the canvas tent was a happy occasion in itself. It was a drafty tent when the wind blew. And it was a stuffy tent when the sun beat down. And a leaky tent when it rained. The two of them folded it up neatly, laid it in the back of the wagon and went inside to eat their first supper indoors.

  In the beginning, one of their first major purchases had been a woodstove. Casey had to cut a hole in the tent roof to vent the stack. The day he bought it, it required three men to get it out of the wagon. Once the home was finished, Casey had to move it again. Julianna was still at work that day and all his mining friends were busy mining. But dragging the woodstove inside was easier than unloading it — he just hitched the stove to Mule and let her do all the work. He was glad Julianna was in town at the time. She might not have appreciated having Mule in the house.

  Julianna smiled. She loved having a home. It had been less than a month since they moved in. What a full year! A new husband, a new town, a new cabin. She stood by the woodstove tending a simmering pot.

  “You’ll like this,” Julianna told LG. “It’s an old family recipe.”

  As she stirred the stew, LG winked to Casey.

  “You’re feeding two lifelong stockmen squirrel?”

  She took a long-handled wooden spoon and tasted the broth.

  “All these hungry miners around, you think there’s any big game left? In these woods?” she asked. “If we want deer or elk, Casey has to make a special hunting trip. Or we buy beef at the butcher shop.”

  “Little things are chattery,” LG commented, shaking his head. “Won’t be chattering no more, I guess.”

  Casey thought that was ironic. LG himself was as prone to chattering as any squir
rel he ever came across. He went over by Julianna and opened the stove belly to check on the fire. The coals were red hot, but he went ahead and put in another log.

  “It’s better than Emmanuel’s sour beans,” Casey said, and got a prompt whack from the wooden spoon.

  “And his burnt boiled coffee!” LG added.

  “Only good thing he made was them sourdough biscuits,” Casey said, suddenly nostalgic.

  Casey was doing his best to be friendly with LG, but Julianna could tell it was forced. Her husband was running out of pleasantries and cattle statistics. She found herself casting side-glances at Casey, wondering what was going on in his mind. She could guess. LG and Casey had ridden together for years…they were compadres. But LG had ridden off while the rest of the B-Cross crew was being gunned down and no one knew where or why and now here he was, sitting across the table, joshing about Emmanuel’s culinary failures.

  That was also the day Julianna met Casey for the first time.

  She could remember it quite vividly. She was heading home after a visit with Josephine, driving the buckboard alone through the canyon. There were supplies in the back, mainly kitchen sundries: baking soda, flour, canned foods. Apples and sugar to bake pie. Her father, the Commodore, was always more amenable when she baked fresh pie. Julianna preferred it when he was amenable. She passed several magpies at one point, bickering over spilled oats. Then a posse rode by — grim men on horseback. They were after killers, the deputy said. Killers, it turned out, who robbed a stagecoach that very morning not five miles down the road. By the time she got there, the men were pulling Casey out of the creek.

  “They say Doc Holliday’s up in Glenwood Springs now,” LG informed them. “Wastin’ away.”

  Casey went back to his seat and sat down with a sigh.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Julianna watched him from the corner of her eye. She was nervous. She just wanted Casey to talk to LG. Like she did with Josephine. If there was ever anything between them, they would talk it out. Casey and LG had been together for three days but hadn’t gotten past bovines.

  The stew had thickened and was basically done. Julianna took a dish cloth and wrapped it around the pot handle. She carried it over to the table and set it down carefully. Steam roiled off in thick wisps.

  “You know, I saw him once,” Julianna mentioned. “All the way back in Ward, before I met Casey. I don’t know what he was doing there. Probably passing through on his way up here.”

  Casey went and got a chair for Julianna, then went to find bowls and spoons. Earlier, Julianna had made a loaf of wheat bread to go along with it. She said a prayer over the meal and gave thanks.

  “So, how do you like squirrel?” she asked LG, after they had all tasted it.

  He held up his spoon to show her.

  “Is this the brisket or the sweetbreads?”

  The tea kettle started to whistle and Casey got up from the table again. They had several lanterns going now that the sun was gone. Hopper was lying on the floor directly behind Casey’s chair, watching closely for a soup spill or perhaps a tasty bread crust.

  Up on a shelf, Casey found the tin can with the tea leaves and sprinkled some into the hot water to let it steep. Julianna was fond of tea and had trained him how to make it. Training him to enjoy it had proved unsuccessful, however. He told her it tasted like tree bark. But Julianna liked it, so Casey fixed it.

  Chapter 11

  Lanterns were hanging from the timbers above the ore bucket. Electric arc lights were suspended from a spider web of wires, too. Between the lanterns and the arc lights, a fairly bright glow illuminated the ground around the Matchless Mine.

  It was after sunset and the sky was a deep purple, speckled with pinpricks of starlight. Prescott Sloan rode up on his black mare and dismounted promptly. Several well-dressed grooms were stationed there. One immediately stepped up to hold the mare’s reins while Sloan got down.

  “Welcome to the Matchless. The gala is being conducted below ground, in Shaft Number Six,” the groom announced rather cheerfully. “This here is Shaft Number One. Number Six is just a short walk down that path. Follow the string of lights and you’ll come right to it. Enjoy the evening, sir.”

  Sloan smoothed his pant legs to make sure they weren’t bunched up around his boot tops. He opened the saddle bag. The banker-turned-businessman was starting to think of himself as a top-tier socialite. A personal invitation from Horace Tabor himself! An eighteen year-old bottle of Scotch seemed appropriate to help seat his style. He removed it from the saddlebag and examined it to make sure it had survived the ride from town.

  The summer night was cool. At ten thousand feet, even summer nights frequently required a jacket and neck scarf. Add to that the meal would be served underground. Sloan unrolled his coat and put it on, along with gloves. He left the mare for the groom to take care of and followed the string of arc lights, cradling the Scotch in the nook of his arm.

  The path led down a steep pile of tailings. Sloan took his time, carefully working down the slope. It was more than a little steep. Couldn’t they have chosen an easier approach for dinner guests? If he dropped that Scotch, Sloan would not be in a pleasant mood.

  When he reached the bottom of the tailings Sloan relaxed. The lights led out into the darkness, lighting up a footpath. The entire area was a wasteland of spent gravel, yellow mounds and waist-high tree stumps. In the dusk, the Number Six was just a silhouette of timber beams reaching up into the sky. There was a small shack nearby where the motorized hoist was stationed. Thick cables ran out of wall slots up to a pulley, high in the timber frame above the shaft itself. Just like Shaft Number One had, there was a large ore bucket suspended over a dark hole in the ground. Except this one was not lit up as well.

  So, this was the shaft where Horace Tabor was hosting a fancy dinner soiree? Sloan was disappointed for some reason. The light string led right to the ore bucket…but other than that, there were no lanterns or bonfires or musicians or champagne to mark the spot. He looked around in the darkness.

  Sloan heard a door creak open and an attendant came out of the hoist shack.

  “Am I in the right place?” Sloan asked him.

  “You most certainly are! Welcome, welcome! If you’ll step into the bucket, sir. This…is…the Number Six!”

  He waved his hand over the ore bucket grandly — as if he were introducing Grover Cleveland instead of a dank hole in the ground. Sloan scowled disdainfully.

  The bucket was large enough for a man to crouch in comfortably. Sloan stepped in carefully, while the attendant kept it from swinging around too much. It took a moment of shuffling to get his balance, and he was especially careful with the Scotch.

  “I suppose I’m in.”

  “Yes sir,” the attendant replied. “We shall begin lowering you presently. Enjoy your fantastic evening!”

  The boisterous attendant disappeared in the hoist shack. The fellow needed a shave.

  There was a loud metallic bellow and then a low grating sound. A bell rang twice. The heavy ore bucket jerked into motion and began its slow descent into the earth. Sloan quickly balanced the Scotch on his lap so he could grip the bucket with both hands.

  There was an arc light attached just overhead. Whenever Sloan looked up he had to squint. It was a harsh light. But there was nothing more to see anyway. The purple night was framed in above him, but that little square patch of purple sky got smaller and smaller as the bucket eased lower and lower into the depths of the Number Six.

  About fifty feet down, it came to rest on the ground with a gritty bang.

  Everything was pitch black except for another strand of electric lights trailing down a corridor. Nearby, Sloan could tell someone was leaning against the wall having a smoke. The orange tip of a cigarette bobbed in the darkness. Sloan waited expectantly but the man did not make a move to assist him.

  “Gonna steady this damn bucket?” Sloan asked, frustrated.

  The orange tip glowed brightly and the scent
of tobacco breezed by. Sloan suddenly felt that something was off. He glanced up the ore shaft but couldn’t even make out the tiny patch of purple sky. He got out carefully and looked around. It was extremely dark in the mine, except that strand of little bright lights. The ceiling was low. He heard water dripping.

  “Where’s the shin dig?” Sloan asked.

  The man flipped a switch that was wired to the rocky wall. A bell rang once, echoing off the walls. The ore bucket scraped heavily off the ground, slid up the shaft and was gone.

  “Follow the drift,” the man said, pointing down the corridor. His voice echoed.

  Sloan stayed close to the glowing light strand, moving tentatively. He couldn’t see anything else. The little lights turned down a narrow passageway. Sloan took care not to hit his head or drop the bottle. Behind him, he could hear the attendant’s footsteps padding along slowly.

  Sloan glanced back nervously but kept moving.

  Up ahead, the light string led through a rectangular doorway — the doorway emitted a warm welcoming glow. It was a relief. Sloan stepped through into a wide mine chamber.

  “Sloan…you made it.”

  There were half a dozen men leaning against the wall waiting for him. Sloan glanced around. Several lanterns were lit, hung on nails in the timber roof supports. But this did not look like a party. Sloan was confused. He was expecting a banquet table, live music, pretty girls serving beer and steak. But there was none of that.

  Horace Tabor was standing behind one of the timber supports, chewing on his thumbnail. Sloan recognized Big Ed Burns and several of his entourage heavies. It was Big Ed who had spoken. Prescott Sloan immediately became wary. He turned around, only to see the bucket attendant filling the entryway — still toking on that orange-tipped cigarette.

  “What’s this?” Sloan demanded.

  “Why, it’s a banquet,” Big Ed said. “Come hungry?”

  “Haw, I don’t understand,” Sloan said, trying to catch Horace’s eyes.