Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  Another man came out of the shadows and walked right up to Sloan.

  “I felt quite the fool, when I opened up that PO Box expecting to find a hundred thousand in cash.”

  Sloan became pale.

  “Soapy Smith!” he said.

  “Yes, good memory, good memory.”

  Soapy reached out and took the Scotch out of Sloan’s hand. He examined it curiously.

  “That’s eighteen year-old Scotch,” Sloan pointed out, his mind racing. “All yours, Soapy. So good to see you here! Perhaps we can dine together this evening. Be pleased to hear how the construction is going on the Tivoli.”

  “Ain’t a banquet tonight,” Soapy replied. “We’re having a revival.”

  “A revival?”

  Soapy tossed the bottle at Big Ed, who scrambled to catch it. Sloan watched helplessly as it soared through the dim light, cringing. But Big Ed caught it.

  “You know a man can live without sinning?” Soapy asked, and gave Sloan a peculiar look. Sloan did not like it.

  “I remember my granpappy took me all the way out to Manheim, Pennsylvania. There was this big tent meeting. It was a Pentecost, for sure. There was a preacher there…I can picture him to this day. Stood on a stump, holding his Bible-book high. Know what he said? He kept saying you need the Holy Ghost!”

  Sloan tried again to catch Horace’s eye. But Haw Tabor was absorbed with the condition of his thumbnail.

  “Do you have sin in your heart, Scotty Sloan?”

  Soapy suddenly grabbed a hold of Sloan’s lapels with both hands and shook him violently.

  “The PO Box was empty!”

  Sloan flopped around in Soapy’s grip. He pulled Sloan close — so close their noses touched. Sloan stared at him with wide eyes but did not try to break Soapy’s hold. The mine chamber was silent, except the drip of water somewhere.

  “The stagecoach was robbed!” Sloan explained. “Right there, just outside Ward. The key was stolen! I sent down another one. Tell me you got that key, Soapy!”

  “Where is my money?”

  He proceeded to give Sloan another good shaking.

  “Haw?” Sloan pleaded, reaching out towards the Silver King.

  But Haw Tabor was not looking very kingly at the moment. He stood where he was, with a sad look in his eyes — as if he were watching a theatre production at the Opera House. Thinking that made it easier for him to digest what was going on. This was all just a play. The curtain would come down and he would be home soon, crawling into bed. His wife Elizabeth would be dead drunk and passed out on the bed already.

  Horace reached into his pocket and produced a vile of white tablets. His ulcer was flaring up, and he expected it would only get worse as the evening progressed. No sense waiting for a private moment to take his medicine. Better give it a head start, before the belly acid really started to burn. The magnesium only helped quell it so much, anyhow.

  Prescott Sloan had thought it was odd that Soapy Smith never sent word about the money, one way or another. It was a hundred thousand dollars after all, quite a large transaction. Sloan had indeed sent his spare key down the canyon as soon as the stage was operating again. Of course, that didn’t happen overnight. It took time to rehire stage drivers who weren’t afraid to end up dead.

  There was only one explanation. He knew Jim Everitt and Ian Mitchell had been killed by stage thieves. From what he learned, it was the same men who killed a sheriff in Grand Lake and rode off with a haul of gold from the Kinsey City bank. Between the bank gold and the stagecoach heist, why would they risk everything to see what was in a PO Box? That didn’t make sense. Sloan could guess they found the key easily enough. Rummaging through pockets was standard procedure for any robbery. But it was just a key! A posse was on their trail and there was no time to waste. Why would they travel all the way into the big city of Denver, all the way to the Post Office, just to see what was inside? They had plenty of gold and a posse to outrun. It made no sense.

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was cleaned out?” Sloan asked Soapy Smith, gently. “I could have provided a loan, or a forward of some kind. Or just signed over your stake in the Matchless, right back to you.”

  “How dull do you think I am?” Smith asked, his eyes getting hard.

  He slapped Sloan across the face, splitting his lip.

  “Ow,” Sloan stuttered. He could taste the blood. “You busted my lip.”

  Soapy turned toward Horace Tabor, Big Ed, and Big Ed’s crew. They were standing there quietly, watching and waiting to see what he would do.

  Prescott Sloan was afraid now — afraid Soapy Smith wasn’t interested in money at this point.

  “Haw? Does this man need to be baptized?” Soapy Smith asked.

  Horace felt cold in his stomach. Being a businessman in Leadville meant conducting business with all kinds of people, including men of shady repute. That was just the nature of the game. For the first time in his career, Horace knew this could be the moment where things took an ugly irreversible turn. And here he was, caught up in the thick of it. Horace didn’t necessarily like Prescott Sloan. He didn’t know him well to begin with, of course, but the man’s character from the beginning was obviously questionable and Tabor had sensed that the first time they met. But dislike didn’t mean Horace wanted to witness the man’s abuse. He fumbled open the vile again and thumbed out several more magnesium tablets.

  Chapter 12

  The harsh glow of the electric lights made the walls look black and glittery. Small bits of quartz in the dark rock seemed to shine like stars in the night sky.

  Soapy Smith dragged Prescott Sloan across the cold floor by the collar. Sloan slid along, trying to keep his footing but he was completely off balance. Soapy pulled him over to where Horace was standing.

  “Sign that,” Smith told Sloan.

  Horace held out a legal document and a pen.

  Sloan slouched to his knees and looked at the floor. Soapy rapped him on the head with his knuckles until he looked up again. Wincing, but without another word, Sloan took the pen and paper. He signed his name without even reading it.

  Plucking the document from his hands, Soapy looked it over. He relaxed and gave Sloan a sullen smile of satisfaction. He patted Sloan’s head softly, smoothing his hair down.

  “You just signed your stake over to the Silver King,” Soapy Smith told him. “Horace, this thing is all yours now. The ore. The income. But good with the bad, too…got some skeletons in the closet.”

  He handed the document back to Horace and roughly took hold of Sloan’s collar again.

  “Well…one at least.”

  He pulled Sloan across the floor to the far end of the chamber where the light string came to an end. In the glow of the last bulb, Prescott Sloan could plainly see that the floor dropped away.

  Swinging Sloan around, Soapy shook him one last time.

  “Help me! Haw!”

  But Big Ed Burns, Horace “Haw” Tabor, and the Burns gang merely looked on. Sloan could feel the emptiness below him.

  “Say hi to the Holy Ghost.”

  And with that, Soapy Smith let go.

  Prescott Sloan disappeared down the dark shaft. The Number Six was fairly deep, and it took a few seconds before he hit bottom.

  Horace quietly folded the paper and tucked it in his coat pocket. Now he owned the entire stake in the Matchless. Soapy had just sold it to him, and no longer held any interest in it whatsoever. Horace was glad of that — this was all too much. He decided right then to cut all ties with Soapy Smith. Horace wanted nothing more to do with things like this.

  Soapy ran his fingers through his short black hair and stood up straight.

  “All yours now, Tabor. You owe me a hundred thousand.”

  “Sure, sure,” Horace said quickly. “Get it to you tonight.”

  “No, let’s make it two hundred thousand.”

  “Two hundred…that’s fine, that’s fine,” Horace agreed nervously. “You know, I own the Bank of Leadville so we don�
��t have to wait for the morning tellers to show up. How about that?”

  While he was trying to add a little levity to a tense situation, an after-hours withdrawal also meant Horace wouldn’t have to explain what he was doing to any of the bank employees. This was a transaction he didn’t want anyone to know about. For all people would know, Prescott Sloan’s name was on the sale’s receipt for the Matchless Mine. Of course, if anyone ever found Sloan’s body in the bottom of shaft Number Six, the jig would be up.

  “What do you say to a bite?” Soapy said. “I want me a nice thick tender steak.”

  Horace kept looking down into the dark shaft. He couldn’t believe it. And he couldn’t believe Soapy Smith wanted to eat after this. Horace was not feeling well. He was certainly in no mood to eat after what he just witnessed.

  “Good thing this shaft is played out. Fill it in, Horace. First thing in the morning. But right now, we dine. Ed, what’s your favorite restaurant in Leadville? Now, don’t say the Pastime.”

  There wasn’t any sound coming up from the darkness. Horace was hoping it had been a quick end. He hoped Sloan wasn’t down there alive, with a broken leg or something. It was likely the man broke his neck and simply died. Horace hoped so. That was an easier thought to live with.

  “Ooo!” Soapy said, snapping his fingers. “Nearly forgot! We have eighteen year-old Scotch.”

  Soapy led the way back. Big Ed stayed close to Horace the whole time, studying him closely. Big Ed knew that poor Haw Tabor was a softy. He wasn’t cut from the same cloth. Big Ed put his hand on Tabor’s shoulder and squeezed. Horace glanced over at him and smiled weakly.

  “Let’s go celebrate,” Big Ed instructed.

  They all went back into the drift shaft and followed the string of lights back to the ore bucket. One by one, they rode up to the surface. Each time the bucket went up, the bell rang once. Each time it came down, the bell rang twice. Horace was the first one to climb in.

  Chapter 13

  Continental Divide

  The wind whistled across the boulders on the ridge. The rocks were loose in places, so Bill crossed the talus with care. The last thing he needed was a twisted ankle.

  The town was only a few miles back. Of course, he gave it a wide berth when he rode through. The good people of Grand Lake would string him up in a heartbeat. Bill barely made it out of Garo, a mere handful of houses and a pathetic train depot in the middle of nowhere, without being recognized. And he had never even been to Garo before!

  If those two cowmen had come just a few steps closer, or turned around at the right moment, they surely would have recognized him. How couldn’t they? After all, it was Bill’s gang that robbed the coach, shot their pards, and scattered their herd.

  Bill kept a close eye on his backtrail. Once again, he was riding a stolen horse. This time, it was from Kinsey City just the day before. He didn’t know what it was about Kinsey City, but it sure was an easy place to steal from. First the bank…now a big bay horse from some alfalfa farmer. The best part about Kinsey City was that no one knew his face — Bill had worn a neckerchief over his nose for the bank robbery, so he felt confident passing through that sleepy little burg any time of day.

  He even dropped by the local inn again for a cup of coffee, trout and rice dinner, and a big slice of mountain raspberry pie. He remembered that from when he robbed the Kinsey City bank — the pie. The raspberries weren’t in season in April, but somehow they had rhubarb available. Perhaps it came in on a freight wagon, who knows. But it was good pie. Both times, Bill made a point of thanking the inn matron. She should know.

  He left the horse in a thicket of charred pine. Curiously, the trees all along the ridge were burnt. Almost all of them had been reduced to blackened stumps. Even the rocks were sooty. Bill wondered if lightning had set off a wildfire since he was here last.

  The fact that the forest was burnt meant he could be spotted easier from a distance. Especially once he got above timberline. Looking around, Bill was a touch nervous about being afoot. Granted, this was a lonely stretch of the Continental Divide, but there were mines up here every so often. And the citizens of Grand Lake seemed like fairly vitriolic folk — after all they did send a posse to run him down.

  The inn matron in Kinsey City talked about a jar on display in Grand Lake. Apparently, poor Will Wyllis had his head chopped off and pickled. Bill liked his own head where it was and intended to keep it there…thus the wide berth around Grand Lake.

  The more he looked around, the more Bill’s nerves frayed. He knew the mine where they buried the gold was along this ridge. Somewhere. But nothing looked the same. The wildfire really affected the landscape. None of this seemed familiar although he knew it should.

  The worst part, Bill realized, was that all the trees up here were burnt to stubs! Vincent had taken pains to set a marker. He stabbed a big butcher’s knife in the side of a pine tree to point the way. Fifty paces uphill from the knife. That’s where the mine was. The mine they took great pains to conceal.

  Bill wondered what happened to half those guys. The Grand Lake Gang was what they had come to be called. Of course, none of them were from Grand Lake. And their achievements in theft ranged much further in terms of geography. That was simply where they gained the most notoriety, when Vincent killed the sheriff.

  Bill began to realize he wasn’t going to find the mine entrance. Those two saddle bags were gone. Full of gold coins and bars! He rubbed his eyes and tried hard to remember. Was it the Mexicans who brought the bags down into the mine? Or was it Will and Lem? Or Granger? He seemed to remember they were all there that night, crowding around him in that narrow, steep shaft. Did they merely cover over the entrance with brush? Or did those Mexicans bring the whole thing down? It was cold and dark that night, Bill could remember that easy enough. Granger was stirring up some trouble — he despised Poqito and Caverango, for whatever reason.

  Of course, Will Wyllis was dead. Bill saw him get shot in the mine shack doorway, right there in front of him. The posse must have sawn his head off. Now it was on display in a jar in a saloon in the same town where they shot the sheriff. An eye for an eye, I guess.

  That had been quite a full night. Bill wondered what became of his crew. Vincent and Granger were dead near Cañon City, he knew that firsthand. Lem got shot right off the stagecoach roof back in Lefthand Canyon. That damn buckaroo shot him. Taking Granger and Vincent along, Bill tried to ride that cowboy down. Then Vincent’s horse spilled and that was the end of it. The Mexicans he couldn’t account for. Or Ned, whose real name was Charley Crouse.

  Bill first met Charley Crouse up in Brown’s Park a few years prior. Brown’s Park was a little valley in the northwest corner of the state full of rustlers and thieves of all sorts. It also was a quiet little ranching community with lush green grass in the summers. A pleasant place, Bill reflected. I might have to head up there again.

  The mining shack was nowhere to be seen. But that was no surprise since it had been on fire when they rode out that night. And even if it hadn’t burned to the ground, the wildfire that ate up this ridge would have finished it off. Either way, he had no landmarks. The mine with the gold-filled saddle bags was somewhere up here. But Bill Ewing knew he wasn’t going to find it.

  Chapter 14

  Garo

  “What did it look like?”

  “Sterling silver…with a chain,” Chubb Newitt replied.

  “It was engraved,” Frank Stevens added.

  That was what Red Creek wanted to hear. He was starting to put it all together. At first, he wasn’t sure who he was after. Which one of them it was. The Grand Lake Gang was hard to identify as to who was who. Back when it all started, and the posse had the gang boxed up in a mine shack on the Divide, Red took the time to count their horses. There were eight of them.

  He got a decent look through the window, too, and even though it was dark Red Creek got a good idea that eight was about right. He crept all the way up to the window, which was not hard since they
hadn’t posted any guards. There were seven inside and one outside checking on their horses. The moon had been out — although the clouds were moving at a fast clip and the light came and went. Red used to be a sharpshooter in the War. He fought for Lee at Antietam. And he was the marksman who shot General Sedgwick in the face at Spotsylvania at 800 yards. That blue coat was so arrogant. Couldn’t hit an elephant, indeed! Red Creek still had the rifle. It was a .45 caliber British Whitworth, and it went everywhere he did.

  Ever since Sheriff Emerson Greer was killed in Grand Lake, Red Creek had begun to feel his blood stir again. He felt purposeful. Ever since the War, he felt numb towards civilized people, civilized conversations, and the mundanity of the civilized world.

  “Had his name writ on it…something Hughes,” Frank told him, staring thoughtfully out the general store window.

  “And there was poetry, too,” Chubb mentioned.

  Opening his notebook, Red Creek looked over the description Hugh Hughes had given him.

  “Absence from those we love is self from self.”

  Both Chubb and Frank lit up, nodding in surprise.

  “Why, yes, that’s it,” Frank affirmed.

  “What did this man look like?”

  “Well, a white fella. Clean-shaved. Dark hair, I suppose,” said Frank.

  “Tall, though,” Chubb added.

  “You’re a short little bugger as it is, Chubb — every person is tall to you,” Frank chastised him. “And husky…you are Chubb, not that fella with the watch.”

  Red Creek knew then it was not the Mexican. And it could not be Charley Crouse, whose face he recognized through the cabin window that night. Charley was blonde.

  This meant he was trailing the very man Emerson locked up in the courthouse prison back in Grand Lake.

  There were eight to begin with, in Red’s count. The horse-checker Red beheaded up on the Divide that first night. The second they found dead near the stagecoach in Lefthand. One of the Mexicans was shot and killed by the B-Cross in Spring Gulch that same day. The one who broke Bill out of prison, the false newspaperman called Judas Furlong — who dressed like a dandy — was dead down near Cañon along with the gap-toothed fool. That left one Mexican still alive, and the blonde-headed Charley Crouse. Neither of which matched the description.