Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  “One day they tell everyone the place is called Kinsey City. Just a couple alfalfa farmers, but it was Kare’s store bringing everybody in.”

  “He was hot over that,” Griff mentioned. “Still is.”

  “Hey,” Bill said. “When a man is incarcerated, he is supposed to be fed rightly.”

  In the backroom of the courthouse, there was only one window. It was small and set up high in the wall. The morning sky was getting brighter outside, but with such a small window hardly any light got in. The room was dim and chilly. Bill got up and grabbed the cold bars.

  “I’m expecting a fine breakfast this morning.”

  Emerson ignored him, but Griff was starting to get irritated.

  “You eat when I say you eat.”

  “The hour’s getting long,” Emerson said to Ben. “We need to get on with it.”

  They both turned around and headed back into the hallway. Griff waved his hand at Bill to let him know he didn’t care about his breakfast expectations and followed the other two men. Since it was early on a Sunday, the courthouse was empty. Their footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors as they crossed the room.

  “Why don’t you get that woodstove going in here?” Ben Leavick said smartly to Griff. “Keep your nose all warm while I help Em do your job for you.”

  “You this desperate for company, Emerson?” Griff asked.

  “I’m that desperate for another pair of eyes and another working Winchester.”

  “Well, then. While you’re making your way on salted elk, I’ll head on over to the Grand Placer and see what’s on the menu,” Griff told them pleasantly. “Be thinking of you, Ben, with that moose-steak and potato plate on my lap.”

  Outside, the morning air was bitter and dry and there were no clouds in the sky yet. It was too early and too cold for anyone to really be out. Main Street was empty. Ben Leavick had hitched his horse right outside the courthouse, but Emerson’s was all the way down at the livery.

  “Caroline stayed up late and baked us up a big batch of her famous Cajun tomato bread,” Emerson confided. “So we may not be suffering as much as you think.”

  The town of Grand Lake was white with a layer of fresh overnight snow. It seemed like every chimney on every building and home was pitching out smoke. They could smell it in the air, along with the scent of lakewater even though the lake itself was still frozen over for the most part.

  Leading his horse by the reins, Ben walked with Emerson down to the livery stable to get his horse tacked up.

  Watching them through a spyglass, Vincent smiled thoughtfully.

  “That them?” Granger asked.

  “Yeah, that’s them,” Vincent said, and kept watching. Granger held his hand out but realized after a minute that Vincent had no intention of passing the spyglass over. Granger gave up and stomped his feet in the snow a few times to get the circulation going in his toes. The town was straight across the lake. The four of them were camped in a thick stand of pine. The winter snow had drifted up pretty deep in places but they had managed to dig out a little area to watch from. Granger’s toes never warmed up properly and they hadn’t dared to light a fire overnight since they were so close to town. It had only been one night without a fire, but it was a hard night since Granger’s boots were thin.

  The two Mexicans, Poqito and Caverango, quietly observed Granger stomping around in the snow. Neither of them liked the gringo. It was clear Granger wasn’t fond of the Mexicans either and let them know it whenever he could. Poqito wished they had not split off from the rest of the group the day before. Vincent made them both come along, otherwise they would have kept riding with Ned, Will Wyllis, and Lem — who were busy leaving a nice set of horse tracks for the sheriff to follow.

  “They’re at the livery now,” Vincent told them, still looking through the spyglass.

  The sun was coming up but it would be a couple hours before it was high enough to get above the mountains and actually shine on Grand Lake.

  “Maybe we could light a fire now,” Granger suggested.

  “Don’t waste your time.”

  “Why not… my toes are about froze.”

  Vincent lowered the spyglass and glared back at Granger impatiently.

  “Soon as that sheriff rides out, I’ll go get Bill. So saddle your horse and double check the cinch. That whole town’ll be riding hard after us once they realize.”

  He pointed at Granger for emphasis.

  “No fire. If you get cold, just rub your teeth together.”

  That, of course, was a reference to Granger’s front teeth which contained a sizable gap. Granger’s face tightened up. He did not like it when Vincent spoke down to him. Since Bill had gotten captured, Vincent’s condescension seemed to recognize no boundaries. Of course Granger didn’t care for Bill much either — but at least when Bill was around Vincent was less prone to goading remarks.

  The gold and the gold dust they pulled from the Kinsey City bank were right there, in their saddle bags. Granger privately wondered why they were spending the effort to get Bill out of prison. What did they need Bill for, really? That was one less person to split it with. But Granger knew Vincent would not go for that kind of talk, as the two of them had been compadres for many years. But Granger also knew that, if it had been himself in that courthouse cell, Ned wouldn’t be out leaving a false track and Vincent wouldn’t be circling around to bust him out.

  “Fine,” Granger grumbled and began to stomp around again.

  Poqito and Caverango did not move or speak. They merely continued to watch Granger, warily but patiently. Both of them were nervous that once Vincent left to go spring Bill, Granger’s civility towards them would deteriorate.

  Poqito glanced at Caverango. They both understood one another’s worries, and sneakily unbuttoned their coats — if things went south, they could make a grab for their gunbelts a little easier. Poqito knew Granger’s gun was already in the man’s pocket, where he had his hands buried at the moment. He hoped Vincent would not be gone long.

  Chapter 4

  Beaver Creek

  Shifting the reins to his right hand, Casey rode near the willows. He held out his free hand and let his fingers graze along the willow branches as he passed by. Casey had worked for many outfits over the last ten years — all in Colorado. And he loved willows and aspen and orange dirt and bits of quartz, and the pale blue sky. This was his country. Nighthawk on a winter shift would not change that high opinion.

  His dog ran alongside, trying to keep up with his horse. All Casey could hear was the bay’s breathing and the crunching snow beneath his hoofs. Casey tucked his chin into his scarf.

  In a bend of the creek, he caught sight of an orange flicker. It was the cookfire. Beyond the fire was a one-room log cabin — the ranch headquarters. The walls were dark pine chinked with white mortar and nearly invisible in the dim light. He could also make out the covered wagon parked by the corral, where the remuda was lined up at the rail watching him.

  On the potrack was a large steaming kettle. Tucked in the coals were two Dutch ovens, round and black and speckled with soot. Casey knew one of those was the 3-day beans. But there were no slap-jacks as he hoped.

  Casey rode up to the fire and just sat there for a minute smelling the woodsmoke. Hopper caught up and ran right over to Emmanuel, a large black man with a filthy apron around his waist. He welcomed the shaggy dog with a big grin.

  “Here ya go, pard,” the cook said and gave him a biscuit. “How’s that taste?”

  LG Pendleton stood in the shadowy doorway, leaning against the doorjamb with his hat in his hand. He used his fingers to comb through his hair and seated the hat firmly on his head.

  Finally, Casey dismounted, moving very slowly. He was sore. He immediately knelt down to a crouch, stretching. Sitting in the saddle all night made his legs cramp up but he only really felt it when he got back on the ground. LG lit a cigarette and called to Emmanuel:

  “How about this tough ol’ puncher riding in. Lo
oks like he’s been wrastlin’ injuns and a-tustlin’ grizz. Big night on the graveyard watch, I can read that sign.”

  “LG, sleep all cozy again?” Casey said wryly. “Never seem to get that short straw, do you.”

  LG laughed at him.

  “And chipper as a lark!”

  “Casey Pruitt,” Emmanuel announced. “There’s a-beans and biscuits fo’ ya. Pipin’ hot.”

  “Oh, them biscuits are looking mighty tempting, Emmanuel.”

  Emmanuel tossed a yellow biscuit to Casey.

  “Gonna cut my night horse loose and I’ll be back for coffee.”

  Reins in one hand, biscuit in another, Casey walked heavily towards the corral. The horses inside hung their faces curiously over the fenceline, ears perked up. They hoped he was bringing them grain but he wasn’t. Casey’s bay nickered. He was eager to get turned out and fed some grain himself.

  “How come no one be a-eatin’ my beans?” Emmanuel asked LG. “There was a time when my beans was second to none.”

  “Camp cookie sure ain’t your calling,” LG said and clapped him on the shoulder. “You can rope a steer with a blindfold on, but you can’t seem to get a loop around a can of beans.”

  “If it weren’t fer my damned ol’ black face, I’d be a-runnin’ my own outfit a long time ago.”

  “I know it, you know it. Every hand here knows it.”

  LG stepped up to the fire and flicked his cigarette in the hot embers.

  “You kin cook up some biscuits — least you got one redeeming quality.”

  “Gonna keep me ‘round now.”

  “Gonna keep you around.”

  Casey cut his horse loose into the remuda. He took the reins and headstall, and lugging his saddle by the horn, dropped it all inside the cabin door. He came back out and blinked in the smoke. He stood there for a long moment staring into the yellow flames.

  “Case. Get some coffee in you,” LG said. He picked up a tin cup and poured some in.

  Gingerly, Casey took the hot cup and blew at the steam.

  “How’s the boy?”

  “On that creampuff paint. Composing verse when I left him.”

  LG snickered and looked over at Emmanuel, hoping to get him riled up. The cook had a laugh that sounded like a donkey, so LG liked to get him going. But Emmanuel merely shook his head at the thought of Edwin’s riding abilities.

  “I hope he learns himself a lesson,” LG observed. “Hurricane deck of a bad horse ain’t for a greenhorn. Poets or none.”

  “That boy put his hand in the fire, if you tells him not to,” commented Emmanuel.

  “Shoot, he’d crawl right in and pull on a blanket,” LG said.

  Chapter 5

  Grand Lake

  Bells tolled. It was Sunday and most of the townspeople were either sleeping the morning away or sitting in a pew. Main Street was empty. Blacksmith, livery, bank, assayer’s, feed & seed — no one was outside; they were all inside where it was warm.

  Griff himself had spent most of the morning in the small sheriff’s office in front of the woodstove. He finally decided it was time to feed the prisoner, so he put on his coat, pushed open the door and stepped out into the brisk air. A cold front had certainly rolled in. His nose had developed a drip, and he felt the wetness crystallize in his nostrils the moment he breathed in. Large flat-bottomed clouds were crawling slowly across the sky. It was not even noon yet. One glance at the sky and Griff knew snow would be falling in a couple hours.

  The sheriff’s office was stationed straight across the street from the courthouse — where Bill was locked up, probably shivering the morning away. All Griff did was push a wool blanket through the jail bars, once Ben and Emerson left. That big old courthouse was just too cold to sit around in.

  Griff glanced up at the sky again and squinted, tipping his hat to shade his eyes. The sun had just crept up over Mount Craig and was shining brightly in the small space between the mountaintop and the thick gray clouds.

  He started walking but paused for a moment to button his overcoat. Just walking from one place to the next gave him a sharp chill, even in the direct sunlight. But the direct sunlight was about to disappear behind those clouds and the temperature would drop once it did. He knew he should have buttoned up his coat before he stepped outside, but sometimes he just didn’t think about it until he was already out the door.

  A green hummingbird flew close by, drawn in by his red silk scarf. It buzzed around his shoulders for a moment and then flew off.

  “Go hole up,” Griff told the bird kindly. The calendar might have said spring, but the sky still said winter.

  He glanced over at the courthouse. He did not feel bad for Bill. If it wasn’t for Bill and his pards, none of them would be out riding horses in the bitter cold backcountry.

  The Grand Placer Saloon was empty except for Otto the barkeeper, who was toking on a cigar. Griff wasn’t much of a saloon patron these days. Marriage had domesticated him. Griff could admit that. His wife Bonnie was a churchgoing lady and was staunchly opposed to drinking and dancing. So Griff gave it all up. But he did yearn for a good cigar every now and then, especially when he caught the sweet scent of aromatic tobacco.

  “Morning, Griff.”

  Otto was a heavy-set man and quite bald. He was sitting on a tall stool behind the ornate mahogany bartop playing solitaire. The Grand stayed open all day and all night: all day for the drinkers, all night for the gamblers.

  “I believe spring actually got here. Saw me a hummingbird right outside that door.”

  “Not attending service this week?”

  “No, sir. Got one in the jailhouse.”

  “Wish you were attending service this week?”

  “No, sir.”

  Otto grinned. He knew Griff, and he knew Bonnie.

  “How can I help you on this fine Sund’y morning?”

  “I best get some feed over to the courthouse.”

  “Tell the Missus you got one in a cell next Sund’y. How does ice fishing suit you?” Otto suggested, disappearing into the kitchen. He knew Griff would not tell the Missus anything of the sort, but he thought he would mention it anyhow.

  White lies on a Sunday would not go over well with Bonnie Allen. Griff tried that once in the first year of their marriage — in order to do some regular summer fishing. It in fact had not gone over well, and afforded a memorable conversation once he returned home that day.

  Griff leaned up against the bar and looked around the room. He spotted a man sitting quietly at a window table. So quietly that Griff had walked right past him on the way in.

  “How do,” Griff said.

  “Morning there,” Vincent said. “Couldn’t help but overhear. Are you the sheriff?”

  Griff shook his head.

  “Deputy Sheriff of Grand County.”

  “Judas Furlong,” Vincent introduced himself, untruthfully. “Rocky Mountain News.”

  Vincent took one last bite of fried egg and scraped backward in his chair. He rose with a friendly smile. A sunbeam angled through the window pane and lit up the dust in the air. It was always odd to be in the Grand on a Sunday morning. It was so quiet compared to a regular day.

  “Not much to write about,” Griff informed him. “Last year all the mining camps basically shut down. Seems like a ghost town up here now.”

  Vincent straightened his neck tie, and then they shook hands.

  Griff noticed he was dressed sharply. When they shook hands, Griff also noticed a fine turquoise ring. He wondered what kind of salary a newspaperman got. A deputy sheriff could not afford nice turquoise rings. Of course, Bonnie’s shopping habits tended to whittle into the family finances quite a bit.

  “Not here about the mines. Heard you have a man in your jail.”

  “Word must travel. Just came in night before last. How did you hear about that already?”

  Vincent pulled out a notebook and pencil from his vest pocket.

  “Word travels.”

  He wagged the penci
l in his fingers.

  “Like to do an article on you and your sheriff,” he continued. “Write up the story how you captured this unruly brigand.”

  Just then Otto came out carrying a tin plate. There was a cloth napkin on top, covering it over. He walked carefully around the bar towards Griff.

  “It’s too hot to hold…except beneath the applesauce.”

  Griff lifted the napkin so he could find the applesauce. There was toast, fried eggs, applesauce, and half the plate was filled with hot chili. Griff took hold of it by the cool side and covered it back over with the napkin.

  “Dern, look at all this. Who we feeding…the President?” Griff asked him. “Still got that celestial working the cook stove?”

  “Yep.”

  “Dish me up a full plate when I get back.”

  Vincent fell into step behind Griff, and they both left the Grand Placer. The street was still empty, and it felt even colder than it had a few minutes before. Griff glanced down and realized he must have unbuttoned his coat again, inside the Grand, but he could not button it back up with a hot plate in his hand. He decided to just walk quickly. Up the street, he could hear hymns being sung in the Methodist church. Even though the words were muffled too much to pick out, Griff knew the tune.

  “What can you tell me about this prisoner?”

  Vincent held up his notepad as if he was ready to write, but Griff was not paying too much attention to him. It was too cold with his coat unbuttoned, plus he had to take care not to slosh hot chili onto his thumbs and scald himself. He angled for the courthouse at a fast clip.

  “Well, this one ain’t talking too much yet,” Griff answered, over his shoulder. “His crew robbed a little bank down in Kinsey City last week.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “Sheriff Greer caught this one himself.” Griff smiled as he thought about it. “We happened to be right there, as luck went. Eating dinner at the Kinsey Inn right across the river. Heard the dynamite go off. Smoke was rolling out the front door of that little bank. This fella ran out the door at that very moment. Greer buffaloed him — just like Wyatt Earp.”