Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  SIPPING WHISKEY IN A SHALLOW GRAVE

  MARK MITTEN

  SIPPING WHISKEY IN A SHALLOW GRAVE

  Copyright © 2012, by Mark Mitten.

  Cover Copyright © 2012 by Mark Mitten.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 50-A W. Main St., Mechanicsburg, PA 17055 USA or legal@sunburypress.com.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Wholesale Dept. at (717) 254-7274 or orders@sunburypress.com.

  To request one of our authors for speaking engagements or book signings, please contact Sunbury Press, Inc. Publicity Dept. at publicity@sunburypress.com.

  FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  November 2012

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-146-6

  Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-147-3

  ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-148-0

  Published by:

  Sunbury Press

  Mechanicsburg, PA

  www.sunburypress.com

  Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania USA

  “Nothing like being drawn back into another time! Old West Colorado comes alive in this novel. Depicting the many different lives, of Lawmen, Thieves, and true working Cowboys out on the Range. All done with the authenticity that makes you really understand what life might have been like back then. Not the glorified romance of many tales of the West, but bringing alive the true hardships, of an untamed Country. While letting us realize what tough, rugged individuals, they must have been, all in the name of survival. A great read, that completely revived my Western Spirit!”

  Fred Hargrove

  Western Cowboy, Singer / Songwriter

  “Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave is a fun and enthralling read! Mark Mitten has managed to create both an authentic voice, filled with western flair, and a freshness. The characters are so alive that you expect them to walk through the door as you put the book down. A great first effort for this wonderful new author!”

  Carol Heiden

  Executive Director, Colorado Therapeutic Riding Center

  "While reading Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave, I found myself in the middle of the action both mentally and emotionally. Mark does a great job developing the characters and the story so that readers are in the center of it all. Anyone who has an interest in the western world should read this one!"

  Dr. Clint Unruh, DVM, Colorado Equine Veterinary Services

  Part 1

  CHARACTERS

  PART 1

  Cowboys of the B-Cross-C:

  Til Blancett – owner of the “B-Cross”

  LG Pendleton – top hand

  Casey Pruitt – top hand

  Edwin

  Emmanuel – cook

  Ira

  Lee

  Davis

  Steve McGonkin

  Rufe McGonkin

  Gyp – wrangler (“jigger boss”)

  The Grand Lake Gang:

  Bill Ewing

  Vincent (“Judas Furlong”)

  Granger

  “Ned Tunstall” (Charley Crouse)

  Poqito

  Caverango

  Will Wyllis

  Lem

  The Grand Lake Posse:

  Griff Allen – deputy sheriff

  Ben Leavick – mercantile store owner

  Roy Caldwell – owns apothecary

  Red Creek Mincy – Civil War veteran

  Merle Hastings – ranch don

  Other citizens of Grand Lake:

  Sheriff Emerson Greer

  Caroline Greer – Emerson’s wife

  Bonnie Allen – Deputy Griff Allen’s wife

  Meggy Leavick – Ben Leavick’s wife

  People of Ward:

  Julianna

  Josephine

  Prescott Sloan – banker

  Hugh Hughes – owner & operator of The Halfway House

  Jim Everitt – stage driver

  Ian Mitchell – rides shotgun for the stage

  Mr. James – the telegrapher

  Zeke – farrier/blacksmith

  Chapter 1

  Colorado

  Continental Divide

  April 1887

  Griff shivered. He knew Emerson wasn’t happy about all this. On one hand, the snow gave them hoofprints to follow. Tracking bank jackers in the backcountry was tougher when the ground was just pine needles and dirt. They already had one tied to the pack mule — at least something to show for it all. On the other hand, by the time they made it back to Grand Lake and dumped him in the jailhouse the snow might melt down and tracking would be unprofitable.

  There was a groan from the direction of the pack mule. Their prisoner was face-down across the animal’s back and a long string of slobber trailed from his mouth. It had dribbled and frozen down the mule’s side.

  “Well, dern Em,” Griff said with a glance to the sky. “Mebbe we should head on back then.”

  The sky was a gray ceiling, right over the treetops. Looking up at it, the lanky dark pines seemed to be pointing out the problem. Snow tufts were just starting to float around them. Big white flakes, light as the air.

  “Either somebody spilt a sack full of cotton,” Griff went on. “Or else that’s snowin’.”

  Emerson Greer never looked up at the sky once. He knew the sun was gone and the clouds were low and snow was in the air. He also knew it was better to head back. He just wanted to give the chase a fair shake.

  “Know I winged one,” Emerson said quietly. “Got his arm purty good.”

  In addition to the horse tracks, Emerson kept noting drips of cherry red blood. Not hard to see in the snow. But hard to see in the dark. And it was almost dark. And the temperature was dropping pretty quick. Even the stalwart Emerson Greer wasn’t immune to the cold. He was wearing his heavy winter coat and thick wooly gloves. His hat kept the snow off his neck.

  He looked back at Griff.

  “Shoot, let’s call it.”

  They were up near treeline. The forest was thinning out. The tracks led upslope onto the talus and Emerson didn’t want to head up into the open rocks in the dark, horseback. It was slow going in such difficult terrain. Snowy rocks meant slickery footing, and a horse with a twisted hock would be a chore.

  Emerson stopped his horse and sighed. He hated turning back. The sun would be out tomorrow and melt most of this off. Tracks would melt out, too, but he couldn’t do anything more about that. They weren’t provisioned for a long haul — plus they had one of them anyway.

  “Those ki-yotes are probably making for Kinsey City.”

  “Mebbe they will,” Griff agreed. “Get collared by the very men they stoled from.”

  Emerson Greer was the Grand County sheriff. While Griff was his deputy and friend, there was still an etiquette to decision making. Griff knew five miles back the pursuit wasn’t likely to pan out. Since Emerson shot one of them in the arm, the men they were chasing were burdened with a wounded man and were likely heading for a safe place to hole up. Their tracks seemed to indicate that, too. However many there were, four or five perhaps, they were headed in a crow’s line and weren’t taking any breaks.

  “Well, then,” Griff nodded. He turned his horse and started back.

  The pack mule’s lead line was tied to
his own saddle. The mule was responsive and followed without any nipping or pulling. He was a good mule — Kodiak was his name. Some trapper from up north sold him to Griff a couple years back. It was anybody’s guess why he got that name. He wasn’t mean, and Kodiak was sure-footed and confident on any trail. On occasion, Griff’s wife Bonnie made carrot cakes. Griff inwardly wished those occasions were far more infrequent. Bonnie wasn’t a good cook, especially when it came to sweets. Her most tasteless enterprise was her carrot cake. But Kodiak liked them. Griff always made sure to smuggle several slices out to the barn whenever Bonnie was out visiting — made it disappear from the pantry quicker.

  “Untie me, you fools.”

  Griff glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

  “Sure thing, boss,” he said with a wink to Emerson.

  The sheriff stepped his horse up by the mule.

  “What’s your name?” Emerson asked him.

  “Bill,” Bill said.

  He slurped a bit — his chin was cold, since frozen spit was caked all over it. Bill twisted as best he could but the best he could see was Emerson’s tapadero.

  “Where’s my hat? It’s quite cold and there’s snow in my hair.”

  “Long gone, amigo.”

  Their horses slowly plodded on. The light was fading fast now and it was getting hard to see through the trees very far.

  “My head hurts,” Bill went on.

  “I’m not surprised none,” Emerson replied. “Buffaloed you square on.”

  “You tied me to a godforsaken mule — that’s thoughtless.”

  “Don’t know how salty that mule is,” Emerson said without much conviction. “Hope she don’t roll.”

  Bill twisted again to throw a look up at him but could still only make out the tapadero.

  “Damn you. Rather inhumane, I’d say,” Bill muttered. He relaxed and hung his head tiredly. He was not lying — his head was hurting. In fact, Emerson had hit him with the barrel of his .45 so hard it split the skin and knocked Bill’s lights out.

  Emerson leaned over and pressed his finger into Bill’s torn scalp. Bill winced and jerked around violently but the knots were well-tied and he didn’t go anywhere.

  “Curse me ag’in, and I’ll crack your skull ag’in.”

  “Best to just lay there and make do,” Griff suggested.

  Chapter 2

  Beaver Creek

  South of Estes Park

  Colorado

  A few of the cows were just starting to stir in the dim morning light. They rose up and started to root through the snow to get at the cold grass, but most were still bedded down.

  Casey Pruitt rode slowly around the herd. He had given up trying to whistle a long time ago — his lips were too cracked. He was huddled inside an old yellow slicker with two sweaters layered up underneath for added warmth. Casey reached up and pulled his wide-brim hat even lower onto his head. It was frosted over. Then he readjusted a knit scarf that was wrapped around his ears and chin. It had been a long night, and he was more than ready for the sun to come up over the ridge.

  Up and down the valley, patches of spring grass had managed to poke up through the white crust. It wasn’t much yet but it was coming in. The season had begun.

  “High summer graze,” Casey muttered. “And I’m freezing my cantle.”

  The valley bottom was a mountain meadow blanketed with snow and walled in on both sides with bare-branch aspen and ponderosa pine. Winding right through the middle of it all, willow bushes sprouting up on both sides, was Beaver Creek. The creek was barely a foot across at its widest point, except the beaver pond, and was glassed over with thin ice from the night’s lows. Casey could hear it trickling below the ice whenever he rode by. He knew it was just a brittle layer and would shatter pretty easy when the cows stepped on it. They could water that way — he didn’t need to get down and break it.

  It was a mixed herd: steers and mommas, yearlings, and even a couple babies out of season. It was mainly Polangus, but some Durham, too. Til, the ranch boss, bought them in Dallas and shipped them by rail up to Denver just the week before. Casey received them from the stockyards himself.

  As he made his way slowly around the herd, Casey’s dog limped over to the creek and sniffed the ice. The dog was close to a hundred pounds and had a coat so thick the winter air didn’t get through. Casey called him Hopper — he had a busted leg from several years back but it never healed up quite right.

  “Hope there’s slap-jacks.”

  The big dog cocked his head to one side.

  “I could do with just a hot cup of coffee. Although the way Emmanuel makes it, it’ll just burn up my insides.”

  Catching some movement from the corner of his eye, Casey glanced up. Someone was heading his way, riding alongside the willows. That would be Edwin — taking his sweet time. He walked his horse, just ambling along. At one point he angled away from the willows to get around the beaver pond. The sound of hoofsteps in the crusty snow carried up the valley.

  It had been another bitter night. It was April in the Rockies so that was no surprise. Casey shook his head impatiently. It was chilly, and his night shift was over and all he wanted to do was ride into camp. He was flat out tired. Also, his horse needed to be grained, and the bay knew what time it was, too.

  Edwin rode past the pond and finally kicked it up to a trot. Casey watched him jostle about in the saddle, his white hat bobbing like a ghost in the dim light. Edwin was just a kid in his late teens, maybe. He had only hired onto the B-Cross the week before.

  “Hey ya, Case. It’s damn freezin’ cold to be riding nighthawk — your pecker snap off yet?”

  Edwin’s grin was lopsided and his breath came puffing out in clouds.

  “Boy, your mama musta had a pantry full of soap. Can you even taste anything but lye?”

  Edwin let out a sarcastic, high-pitched hoot.

  “Makes them beans go down. And that’s what’s waiting for you back at the cookfire.”

  Casey pulled off his rawhide gloves and rubbed his hands together to get the blood moving. His skin was so dry his knuckles were about to split.

  “Kidding me? That same batch has been sitting in the Dutch oven for three full days.”

  He shook his head.

  “Last time I ate 3-day beans,” Casey went on, “I was belly-aching for three days beyond.”

  “Well there’s paper in the shitter this time.”

  “What happened to your eye?”

  Edwin’s smile faltered. He reached up and touched his eye very carefully.

  “Roped a bronc from the remuda, crack of dawn. It was that cranky ol’ sorrel of LG’s. Belly full of bedsprings.”

  Casey looked down to see which mount the boy was riding. It was not LG’s cranky sorrel. It was a soft-eyed paint called Sugar.

  “Ought be condemned!” Edwin added ruefully.

  “LG can ride anything with hair on it. And his string’s nothing but mean,” Casey told him. “Likes it that way, I guess. Certainly makes a statement.”

  Casey walked his horse a few steps while he tried to work his gloves back on. They were frozen stiff and just too cold to make it worth the effort. So he gave up and tucked them in his belt. Behind him, he could hear Edwin mumbling to himself.

  “Cows. Piss-stinkin’ cows.”

  Casey pointed his bay back up the mountain valley. Hopper ran after him. The dog’s limp turned into a smooth lope as he picked up speed. Casey glanced down at him. Ever since he got his leg squished, that poor dog always did better at a run than a walk.

  Chapter 3

  Grand Lake

  Colorado

  The blood had clotted and was clumped up in Bill’s hair. He tried to run his fingers through it, but they got snagged and made his eyesight flash white.

  “Your brainpan is all rattled. Just sit tight — ain’t going nowhere.”

  Bill looked up and glared through the iron bars, but Emerson was not moved by it. At that moment, Griff came walking down the hallwa
y and into the backroom where the jail cell was. Behind him was Ben Leavick, who owned and ran the Leavick Mercantile.

  “Hoo-ee,” Ben said and whistled. “Get the gold back, too?”

  “No, I did not,” Emerson told him.

  “Let’s go get it then.”

  “When is a man so privileged as to eat around here?” Bill inquired sullenly.

  “Got your horse ready?” Emerson asked Ben.

  “Yessir.”

  “Don’t know how many are out there,” Griff pointed out. “This one won’t say.”

  Once more Bill picked at the dried blood in his hair but only made himself wince. He looked at his hand. He must have pulled the scabbing loose that time since there was fresh blood on his fingertips.

  “Probably ain’t nowhere about anyhow,” Ben commented.

  “Griff, you stay here,” Emerson said. “Me and Ben will head on out, although I am not confident we’ll catch up to them today, or at all.”

  Griff nodded. He already knew the chances were slim. This was more a formality than anything, which was why he wasn’t too disappointed Emerson asked him to stay behind and watch over their prisoner — or too disappointed he would not be eating salted elk and cold beans tonight.

  “Those tracks were angling right back toward Kinsey City and straight as an arrow, too.”

  “We’ll head out that way and see,” Emerson said. “Maybe Kare Kremmling has heard tell by now.”

  “Hell, maybe he’s got ‘em locked up for us,” Griff suggested. “Or strung up.”

  Stepping over to the cell door, Ben Leavick smirked at Bill.

  “Your compadres left you for the wolves. How’s that make you feel?”

  “You ain’t no wolves,” Bill replied with an easy smile.

  “Kare’s still mad at them Kinsey brothers,” the sheriff went on.

  “What for?” Ben asked him.