Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  “How many are we taking to town?” Steve asked him.

  “Everything in the cow line that can walk,” Casey said, wiping dust from his eyes. “Little calves, big calves, mama cows, bull stags. The lot of ‘em.”

  Edwin propped the spent iron back in the fire so it could get hot again. There were several irons in the fire, ready to use.

  “We done cut out the yearlings and the 2-year olds, mebbe the last one right there,” LG said from the saddle. “Rest of them beeves are branded already.”

  Casey stepped up to the black calf LG had roped and easily bulldogged it to the muddy ground. The whole area was a cold muddy mess. With a quick movement Steve unlooped LG’s rope from its hind feet. He took hold of a leg and stretched it out for the brand. Edwin took a new iron and stepped up to use it.

  “Hey, Ima!” LG called out over the herd. “Any mavericks over there?”

  A hired hand named Ira sat his horse quietly. He turned and frowned deeply at LG. On impulse, he reached up and twisted the end of his trailing mustache.

  “It’s Ira,” he called back. “Name’s Ira.”

  Ira was a droopy-hatted cowpuncher who spoke in monotone — and often monosyllables. He stared forlornly at LG. Ira was from Tulsa, Oklahoma, born in the saddle. His father was a horse breeder, and horses were all Ira knew. At the cookfire, LG told Emmanuel that Ira must have been kicked in the head at least once at some point, which must have knocked out his smarts. Emmanuel knew he was teasing but like usual chose not to josh back. Emmanuel was always careful not to josh around too much, especially with hired hands he did not know. He never met Ira before. Of course, neither had LG, but that did not stop him from joshing the man.

  Casey let the black calf go. Jumping and kicking, it ran straight back over to its mama.

  Not so quietly, LG said to Casey, “Not sure where Til pulled these waddies from. Must be slim pickings down at them stockyards. I suspect Blocker hired on all the good ‘uns.”

  Casey gave him a sharp glance from under his hat brim. Ira was barely twenty steps away, still twisting his mustache forlornly.

  “LG, I swear.”

  “That ole boy can’t hear us! Don’t look so guilty,” LG said with a smile. “He’ll suspect you’re talking about him.”

  “Ain’t you just the clown,” Casey muttered dryly.

  Edwin stepped up to Casey and took off his hat. His hair was matted and dripping. A clear line could be seen where the dirt and sweat stopped and his clean white scalp started. Half of his forehead was pale as the moon.

  “Fire sure burning me up.”

  The kid was breathing pretty heavily. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Even with the cold front, all the men were drenched in sweat from the morning’s work — but Edwin had the added burden of standing over the branding fire all day.

  “What’s the count?” Steve asked. “Lost track after three hunnert head.”

  “Ain’t broke no record,” LG said flatly. He waved irritably at the flies.

  “Bliss enough, it’s a fairly pleasant day,” LG continued. “Last year we fought hail storms into June.”

  Edwin picked up a tin cup and headed off toward the creek.

  “Guess I’ll go count my damn blessings.”

  The sun never got a chance to melt off the creek ice, and the beaver pond was still frozen over. Crouching on his heels, Edwin smacked the tin cup against the ice and broke through, then dipped his cup into the running water. As soon as it was full, he wasted no time draining it. He dipped it right back in and downed it again.

  After four cups, Edwin stood up. Cold water dripped off his chin. He started to walk back towards Casey but swayed and checked himself.

  LG was watching him from the saddle with an amused look.

  Edwin ran a hand over his face, eyes widening for a moment. He took a step towards the other cowpunchers, but then bent over and folded his arms across his stomach.

  “Alright?” Casey called.

  “Dizzy. Hard to see.”

  Casey went over and helped him straighten up. Together, they walked away from the herd, Casey holding him up as they went along. They made it to the forest edge and in among a stand of budding aspen where Edwin promptly collapsed and did not move.

  “That crick was mountain snow a couple hours ago,” Casey said when he came back.

  “Here comes Lee,” Steve pointed out.

  Lee, another one of the hired hands, rode up just then and halted his horse. He crossed his arms over the saddle horn and relaxed for the first time that day.

  “Rufe out there still?” Steve asked him. Rufe was Steve’s younger brother.

  “Riding herd. With Davis.”

  “Well, boys, we’re gonna get a late start tonight,” LG announced. “We’ll spend the rest of the afternoon tallying — probably start this herd around supper time at this dandy pace.”

  All the cowmen looked up in surprise.

  “Tonight?” Lee asked. Til had said the B-Cross was in a hurry when he had hired on, but he thought they would at least get a night to rest up before trailing the cattle.

  “Yep,” LG said.

  Lee dismounted. All of them took tin cups over to the creek, but were cautious after watching Edwin drink too much too quick after such a hard morning. They took care to sip it slow and easy.

  Casey went over to check on Edwin. The rest of the crew trailed over to the trees to sit for a few minutes. Even LG got off his horse. He brought over a sack full of jerked beef, which he passed around. After spending half the day branding, they all managed to stay pretty warm with the work — but now that they were sitting still, the chill crept right in.

  “This is Colorada, boys,” LG said in a proverbial tone. “One day it’s winter time cold. Next day it’s summer time hot. You don’t like the weather? Wait a bit and it’ll turn.”

  The sack of beef strips made its way around the group. Another rider trotted up just then and got off his horse. It was Davis.

  “Have a bite, Davis,” Steve said to him and passed the sack over. “My brother heading in?”

  “Not too far behind me.”

  Several magpies swooped in and perched on the tree limbs overhead. One came down and hopped right up to Edwin, cawing at him for something to eat. It clearly expected a handout and was not shy about asking. Edwin tore off a tiny corner and flicked it at him. The other birds immediately flew down to the ground near Edwin.

  “Hear what Til was saying about Blocker?” Casey asked.

  “Yep — the XIT,” said LG.

  “What’s that?” Lee asked them. “What exit?”

  Casey began drawing letters in the snow as he spoke.

  “X, I, T…the XIT.”

  “New brand,” LG explained. “Down in Tejas. Largest cattle operation I ever heard of. Three million acres! Had to ask Til twice.”

  “That’s half the Panhandle,” Casey added, nodding for emphasis.

  Edwin sat up, still looking unwell. Casey’s dog, Hopper, came over to the magpies to see if they were eating something he wanted. The birds spread their wings and swooped back up into the tree, cawing at the dog.

  “Well, damn, what else did Til say?” Edwin asked weakly.

  “Apparently, just here in November they bought up over a hundred thousand cattle,” LG explained. “Get this…paid out one an’ a third million dollars.”

  “Who on God’s green earth can afford something like that?” Edwin asked, unable to get his mind around the sum.

  “Syndicate up in Chicago, story goes,” Casey told him. “Rounded up the funds. Folks all the way in England buying up stock.”

  “It’s big, boy,” LG told him. “They’re stringing fence right now. Digging wells, putting up windmills. Nothing like it.”

  “Til’s worried,” Casey said. “Thinks with the Great Die-Up in Wyoming and Dakota, the XIT’s gonna move quick to take over the market. And the King. Small outfits better move now if we hope to keep up with the game.”

  A
t that point Ira walked up to the group, having emerged from the herd on foot. His side was smeared with mud and snow and the crown of his hat was mashed in.

  “LG, ain’t no more yearlings,” Ira announced. “Looks like we done roped ‘em all.”

  Davis looked him over.

  “Where’s your horse?”

  Ira flushed. He removed his hat, slapping at his legs to knock the mud off. He was silent for a few moments, pulling at his mustache. The breeze kicked up for a few seconds, causing the budding branches overhead to stir. LG grinned broadly, knowingly.

  “Where’d he throw you?”

  Ira looked abashed.

  “Somewhere betwixt the first n’ second jump. I cannot recollect.”

  Chapter 9

  Grand Lake

  “Bet there’s a slew of ordnance locked up in there,” Vincent mentioned to Bill, indicating the sheriff’s office. “No one’s going to bother us. This town is quiet.”

  He smirked, adding, “Quiet as a church.”

  Bill wasn’t sure what the time was, but he suspected people would be letting out of church at any moment. The Methodists were right there on the corner, and he could guess this town had its share of Baptists and Presbyterians. This seemed like a churchy town to Bill. All morning long he was forced to listen to hymns humming through the thin courthouse walls.

  “Jailbreak on a Sunday morning,” Bill cooed and smoothed his hair, checking his reflection in the glass. “Lord have mercy! Where are the boys?”

  “Out by the lake. Granger probably gut-shot them Mexicans by now. Ned’s leading that sheriff to the wrong side of nowhere, even as we speak.”

  Pushing open the courthouse door, Vincent strolled nonchalantly into the brisk air. The clouds were certainly darker than they were an hour ago, and collecting fast. The sun had disappeared entirely and Mount Craig’s summit was gone now, too, cut off by the lowering sky.

  Digging his hands deep in his pockets, Vincent headed straight toward the sheriff’s office. Bill let him lead the way — he wanted to get his bearings. Those lawmen had brought him in tied to the back of a mule. Not only was that a humiliating mode of travel but it also prevented him from getting a look at where he was.

  “No one’s about,” Vincent said, feeling good. “Let’s go knock.”

  It took a minute to cross the wide street, then up the short staircase onto the landing. Bill turned and looked around. A cold breeze blew across the frozen lake. He watched swirls roll off the white surface. The swirls swept right towards them. Bill hunched up as it hit, but Vincent wasn’t paying attention and hooted with the shivers. Bill frowned at his old compadre. At least the man had a coat on. Bill didn’t know where his was and wasn’t sure what that damn sheriff did with it after they locked him up. And of course his hat was long gone.

  The front door was locked up, but Vincent had Griff’s keys. The first six he tried didn’t work.

  “What’s taking so long?” Bill asked impatiently. He cupped his hands and blew into them several times.

  Vincent finally found the right one, and they went inside immediately. The sheriff’s office was so hot, it was like entering a sweat lodge. Bill saw why. A cast iron woodstove sat against one wall — and it was pumping out the heat! Bill went right over and nearly hugged it. He could imagine the deputy relaxing here all morning long — while all he gave Bill was a ratty wool blanket. They could have at least left him his coat!

  Vincent peeked out the front window. The street was still cold, windy and empty. He pulled the thick green curtains closed. Bill turned so his backside could thaw. Curiously, he studied the office. It was not much of an office, really. There was a desk, a cabinet, two benches, a coat rack, the wood stove and a closet. He saw a nice coat hanging on the coat rack and tried it on. It was a thick rancher’s coat with what appeared to be buffalo lining. There were gloves tucked down in one sleeve, and they would certainly be helpful. What a pleasant surprise. It was a nicer coat than he had in the first place. Given his poor treatment, and the fact that his breakfast was on the floor back in the courthouse cell, at least he was getting a decent coat out of all this.

  Vincent wasted no time and went to the desk, yanking open both drawers — one with each hand. The drawers slid right out and dropped heavily onto the floor, spilling paper sheaves and pencils everywhere.

  Bill gave Vincent a reproachful look.

  But Vincent merely shrugged off Bill’s reproof.

  “No need for tippety toes,” Vincent told him. “All the good folk are in their pews.”

  The buffalo coat seemed to fit Bill fine. Maybe a little tight when he stretched his arms, but it would work. He found a pipe in one pocket and a leather pouch in the other. He opened the pouch and smelled the tobacco. It had cherry undertones.

  “And in their bide,” Bill mused, “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.”

  Vincent held his breath. Bill was quoting Shakespeare! Did he know Vincent had gone to the theatre in Creede that one time? Vincent thought he had gotten in and out of there without any of the boys knowing. He glanced at Bill who was sniffing the pipe bowl. Or was this coincidence? Bill did seem to know most of the things that went on. Vincent watched him from the corner of his eye, but Bill did not seem interested in taking the reference any further.

  Vincent relaxed, and returned to ransacking. He scattered the papers around with his boot and then went to the closet and turned the knob but it was locked. He picked up the desk chair and smashed it against the door. The door knob fell off but the door still would not open.

  “Here we go,” Bill said.

  In one shadowy corner was a tall walnut cabinet. Gently, he ran his fingers over the smooth veneer and black iron latchwork. It was a tall cabinet and ran all the way to the ceiling.

  Giving up on the closet, Vincent came over to get a closer look.

  “Gun cabinet?”

  “Keys.”

  Vincent handed Griff’s keys to Bill. There were about ten keys on the ring. Bill fanned them out but they all looked the same in this light. He picked the first one and tried it in the lock. It did not fit so he tried another. Vincent leaned in over his shoulder. He had already been through the keys once at the front door, and remembered one of the keys was black and fancy.

  “Try that one,” he said, pointing at the fancy black key.

  The front door opened and two men walked inside the office.

  Bill and Vincent turned around.

  It was Sheriff Emerson Greer and Ben Leavick, the mercantile store owner and operator.

  They stopped in midstride.

  The moment wore off.

  Emerson Greer suddenly bolted across the room and tackled Bill, knocking him hard to the floor. Bill rolled around frantically, trying to break free. He landed several punches, but the sheriff grabbed onto Bill’s wrists and hung on. In the scuffle, Greer’s sidearm clattered out of its holster and was knocked under the desk.

  Ben Leavick was absolutely shocked. The very same prisoner they locked up in the courthouse cell was standing right there, rooting around the sheriff’s gun cabinet. He didn’t know who the other fellow was, but it didn’t matter. The shock dissipated, and Ben made a run at Vincent.

  But Vincent remembered he had Griff’s pistol tucked in his belt, so he pulled it out as fast as he could. He had just enough time to club Ben on the forehead. Ben’s knees gave out — but he fell into Vincent’s legs and knocked him down like a bowling pin.

  Blood leaked down Ben’s forehead and ran in his eyes. He reached up to feel his face, and his hand came away slick with blood. As soon as he saw it, Ben felt his stomach turn weak.

  Somehow, Vincent managed to hang onto Griff’s gun. He scrambled up to his knees and noticed that Ben was distracted by his bloody hand, so he leaned right over and clubbed him on the head a second time. Ben crumpled to the floor.

  Getting to his feet, Vincent went around the desk to check on Bill — who was still wrestling with the sheriff on the floor. Vincent po
inted the gun at Greer, but he could not get a clear shot and wasn’t sure he should shoot even if he got one. What if the bullet passed right through the sheriff and hit Bill? What about the sound of the discharge itself? Bill had been fairly adamant about not shooting the deputy back in the courthouse.

  Vincent was not sure what to do. He tried waiting for the struggle to play itself out, but they were still rolling around fighting and it did not look like it was going to end. While he thought it over, Vincent uncocked the hammer and lowered the gun. Perhaps Bill should just fight this thing out himself. He sat on the corner of the desk and watched.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Bill said through gritted teeth. “Shoot him!”

  “Don’t want to plug you in the process.”

  From his position on the corner of the desk, all Vincent could see of Bill was his angry eyes peering over the sheriff’s shoulder. The room was basically quiet, except the sound of bootheels thumping against the floorboards.

  “Shoot him!”

  “Would be nice,” Vincent said.

  Emerson Greer realized another man was standing over him with a gun. Twisting, he kicked out and caught Vincent’s shin, causing Vincent to slip off the desk.

  On the other side of the room, Ben’s eyes fluttered. He slowly got to his knees. His vision was blurry. Ben wasn’t sure where he was or why he could not see clearly. Ben heard the scuffle and suddenly remembered he had blood in his eyes. Using his sleeve, he wiped his face so he could see better.

  Vincent did not notice that Ben Leavick had gotten up. He had taken his place on the desk corner again, and was enjoying the fight. Every few seconds, the two men rolled across the floor one way or another. Bill would roll over and carry the sheriff along with him. Then the sheriff would roll and take Bill with him. It was entertaining.

  “Shoot him!”

  “What if it goes on through and I end up shooting you? You won’t like that, Bill.”

  Emerson did not want to be shot in the back, so he rolled on over once more, dragging Bill around on top of him. Emerson thought it would be better to have Bill between himself and Vincent’s gun. He realized what a bad situation this was.