Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  Emerson broke his grip and grabbed Bill by the throat. He squeezed as hard as he could and Bill’s face turned red and he sputtered.

  “Alright…seen enough of this,” Vincent said in a tone of exasperation. He stepped forward and wriggled the gun between the two men’s bodies. He pressed the barrel against Emerson’s chest and fired.

  The discharge was much louder than he expected — the small room and everything in it seemed to rattle.

  Emerson’s grip loosened at once. He collapsed on the floor.

  Bill staggered up to his feet, coughing, and hunched there trying to breathe. He pressed his hand over his left ear.

  “Blew my hearing!” Bill shouted angrily at Vincent.

  “I’m shot!” Emerson called out.

  Ben snapped out of the fog that had filled his head. He wiped his eyes once more on his sleeve and looked around. He saw Emerson Greer lying on the floor near the desk. Bill and Vincent were standing over him and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room.

  “Black muley son of a bitch!” Ben yelled. He leaped to his feet and ran headlong at Vincent.

  Bill saw him coming.

  “Watch out!”

  Vincent turned around and pounded his fist into Ben’s eye. Ben went down for a third time, hitting his head on the desk. Outside, they heard a door slam.

  “Quiet, quiet!” Vincent whispered sharply.

  He immediately crossed the room, parting the thick green curtains with his finger.

  People were coming.

  He took a deep breath to compose himself, ran his fingers through his hair, set the gun on the window ledge and stepped out into the chilly air.

  The barkeeper, Otto, was running up from the Grand Placer Saloon. He had a look of clear concern on his face. Vincent knew he must have heard the gunshot. Someone else was coming up the street from the opposite direction, from the apothecary. It was Roy Caldwell.

  It was play-acting time. Vincent stood on the landing and leaned far over the rail, making a big show of peering around the sheriff’s office, down the side street, as if the gunshot had come from there.

  “Hear that?” Vincent called to Otto.

  Both men ran up to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him questioningly. Vincent pointed down the side street. They followed his gesture but did not see what he was pointing at. That was, of course, because there was nothing to see.

  “Everything alright?” Otto asked.

  “Heard a gunshot!” Roy Caldwell exclaimed.

  “We did, too!” Vincent said innocently. “Came from down there, somewhere. Your deputy just went to check on it.”

  Otto and Roy looked at each other. Something did not seem right to either of them. The gunshot sounded like it came from inside. Not outside.

  “Griff?” Otto said uncertainly. “Well, then.”

  Vincent gave them a confident smile.

  “That’s right. Griff. He just ran off down there to see about it.”

  “Who is this?” Roy asked Otto, pointing at Vincent.

  “He was in the Placer earlier.”

  “Mr. Judas Furlong — Rocky Mountain News,” Vincent said. “Doing an interview with your deputy. Quite a fellow.”

  Once more, curiously, Otto looked down the side street. He did not see or hear anything from that direction. Griff was nowhere to be seen.

  “Probably someone oiling their gun and it went off, you know how it goes,” Vincent said, tipping his hat. “Take care now.”

  “And you, sir,” Otto replied. “Come with me, Roy. I’ve got chili on the menu.”

  “Chili?”

  Roy was confused. Why would he want chili? He had a nice stove in the apothecary where he cooked all his meals. He was a lifelong bachelor and did not even own a home. Roy lived in the apothecary — he had built a nice room in the loft — and had everything he needed right there.

  “White-tail deer. Best take of the season. Come on,”

  For some reason, mainly the look in Otto’s eyes, Roy decided not to argue. They walked down to the saloon together. Vincent watched them for a minute and then stepped back inside the sheriff’s office.

  Bill stood near the window, watching through the curtains.

  “Don’t know if they took that or not,” Bill supposed.

  He stepped over Sheriff Emerson Greer, whose chest was bubbling with blood. Greer was not making any noises, but he was alert — his eyes followed Bill wherever he went in the room.

  Kneeling, Bill picked up the keys from the floor and noticed Emerson’s gun under the desk. Bill looked down at the sheriff and shrugged.

  “Sorry, bud.”

  Bill took the gun, stepped over Greer, and went back to the gun cabinet. He tried the black key that Vincent had pointed out earlier and the lock clicked. Bill was relieved to find a variety of Colts, Winchesters, and a sizable cache of ammunition. Vincent leaned in and whistled.

  “Pick your treats,” he said. “And off we go.”

  Chapter 10

  Ward

  Colorado

  “Julianna Purcell!”

  Josephine’s face sparkled, and she waved one arm high above her head.

  The Miser’s Brewery was a tempest. So many people were inside that no one could even hear the three-piece band. Between the banjo, mandolin or violin, none of the strings made it over the chatter. It was snowing outside, and the shawl covering Julianna’s head was flecked with white powder. She pulled off the damp weave and ran her fingers through her long chestnut hair. It was much warmer inside the building than it was outside in the chilly air.

  “I’ve found gossips and crows,” Julianna announced lightly. Besides Josephine, there were two other women at the table. “Josephine. Vera, Hazel,” she counted aloud. “Ella is absent.”

  “Corralling a young maverick,” Josephine said.

  “Spinning the wedding ring,” Hazel added with her quirky smile, twirling her finger around in a circular pattern — she was miming a trick roper’s loop.

  Julianna sat down in a chair they had saved for her. It hadn’t been easy to save the chair, either. Many people in the big room were standing, it was so crowded. Sipping coffees and teas, the ladies were enjoying the overall bustle of the restaurant when Julianna arrived.

  “If anyone can take the snarls out of a rope,” Hazel went on, “she is as sportsmanlike a woman as any of the cowboys on the range.”

  Vera shook her head and muttered, “Cutting more than she can brand.”

  Julianna just smiled. These were all friends here, even if they chided one another.

  “Look over there,” Josephine said, nodding toward the far corner.

  The Miser’s Brewery was one of the few two-story buildings in town. The eatery was upstairs, which afforded a view. A large picture window filled up half the south wall and overlooked the wooded mountain valley. White blots of snow dropped past the glass.

  “What should govern my attention?” Julianna asked, her eyes searching the crowd.

  “Corner table.”

  With a smile and touch of curiosity, Julianna shifted forward in her seat to see better. Vera and Hazel leaned apart so she could see past them.

  “I see a solitary man,” she observed. “Platinum blonde hair. Leonine mustache.”

  The man she spotted was dining alone and dressed immaculately. He looked pretty gaunt. She noticed his dark eyes were very direct, and he was quietly measuring everyone around him as he ate. He had not yet noticed the ladies watching him, or if he had he was ignoring them.

  “Thin frame. A very fine-looking suit,” she went on. “And the gentleman likes his whiskey.”

  He lifted a kerchief to his mouth and started coughing violently. They could hear the fit, even over all the noise. Julianna still couldn’t hear the band, but she could hear the sandy cough.

  “And the gentleman is wracked with consumption,” Hazel pointed out in a hushed tone. She was obviously excited.

  “Must I trace it out plainly?” Josephine said
impatiently. “John…Henry…”

  Julianna turned to her sharply.

  “Holliday?”

  The women all shushed her at the same time — their collective hush drew several sidelong looks. But Julianna only giggled. She knew they were trying to be coy, and she was deliberately being louder than she needed to be. It was fun.

  “A dentist in Ward! How novel.”

  Julianna’s voice was playful, but Josephine’s face went red.

  “That’s really him. I’m not mistaken!”

  Somewhere outside, a dull explosion echoed through the mountains. Ward was one of the many mining towns in the backcountry of Colorado — and detonations were so commonplace no one noticed.

  “Maybe these miners need dental exams,” Julianna said with a spritely look around her. “Hygienists they are not.”

  “Something tells me he’s not pulling teeth these days,” Vera muttered, darkly. Vera was a mutterer. She twisted around in her seat, frowning at Holliday.

  Julianna sighed. They were all obsessed with this subject. In fact, the ladies seemed to be in an unalterably serious mood. Julianna didn’t want to be serious. She had driven her buckboard all the way up the canyon from Gold Hill. It had been a month since she was in Ward last — the biggest town in the area, and the closest thing to big city culture she had. The Miser’s Brewery served a delicious roast and scalloped potato dish, and she had been looking forward to an easy time with good friends and a tasty meal. She sighed a second time.

  “This is not a terminus town,” she told them, giving up. “No railroad, no gambling house. Why would such a man alight here?”

  “Avoidance,” Hazel offered. “From pursuants…men of darker intent.”

  From her tone it was clear Hazel hoped that was not the case. Julianna hoped it was. A little excitement sounded appealing.

  “Heard about that fellow Ryan?” Vera said in her muttery voice. “Denver — last fall. Holliday dealt cards at Babbit’s house. Ryan pulls a gun. But Holliday has a knife hidden on a lanyard, hung about his neck and no one knew it was there…until Ryan got cut up dead.”

  How delightful. Where was the waiter? The miners at the next table had big plates of roast and it smelled good. Julianna looked hopefully toward the bar.

  “Ward’s no boom town. Probably on his way up to Leadville,” Josephine reasoned. “Faro. Man’s a vulture. Feeds off those poor souls trying to scratch out a living in the placers and dredges.”

  Hazel turned and threw Holliday another curious look.

  “Doesn’t look too healthy to me.”

  Across the room, he was still trying to suppress the coughing fit. Holliday’s face was white and his frail-looking body shook with the effort. It seemed like it was not going to end.

  Finally, the talk turned.

  “And how is the Commodore this month?” Hazel asked her, suddenly polite and proper.

  “Well enough,” Julianna replied, brightening. “Still the reclusive curmudgeon we all know and love.”

  Josephine was still put out over her friend’s lack of interest in Doc Holliday. Josephine had been the first one to recognize the man, and the other two had gotten excited about it. Why didn’t Julianna? Things like this did not happen in Ward. It was a boring little town. It made her mad. Plus, Julianna and Josephine were closer friends than they were with Hazel and Vera. She felt a mean streak coming on, leaned over and looked Julianna in the eye.

  “This world is rapidly changing, my dear. Your father is stuck in the old days — he needs to get with the program.”

  Julianna felt her stomach tighten up. Usually when they all got together like this, the talk was lighthearted gossip. But sometimes it was bickery — times when it took a sour turn and rolled on like a runaway train. Julianna realized this was one of those runaway train talks. Any good humor she had when she came in the door drained away.

  The other two joined in with Josephine.

  “Colorado is a state now,” Hazel said crisply. “Custer’s dead.”

  Vera nodded and said, “Sand Creek was over ten years ago.”

  Julianna frowned. That fluttery feeling in her stomach got worse.

  “Well, now. I’ll try and remember to pass on your sentiments. I’m sure my father will appreciate the good news.”

  She tried to wave down the bartender, since the waiter was on the far side of the room. Julianna didn’t want to talk about her father with these women anymore. Why were they all in such an abrasive mood, anyway? She did not care one whit about Custer, Sand Creek or Doc Holliday or his dry raspy cough. All she had wanted was a good meal, one she didn’t have to cook — and some light conversation with friends. But now what she really wanted was a big glass of wine.

  It was true her father was a colorful figure. Up until last year, the Commodore used to spend time in Ward and succeeded in making a spectacle of himself. Everyone knew who he was. That didn’t help. He was a little eccentric and Julianna knew it, but the subject of her father was still very delicate for her anyway.

  The look on her face must have conveyed what she was thinking.

  “Oh, honey,” Josephine said gently, deflating. She shot Vera and Hazel a harsh glare. She touched Julianna’s forearm in a kind way. “We meant nothin’ by it.”

  But Julianna turned her eyes to the large picture window and the snow falling outside. It was late in the day and only a matter of time before the sun went down.

  “The tea is splendid this evening,” Hazel said. “Codfish on the menu.”

  Chapter 11

  Beaver Creek

  Whenever the cloud cover was low and dark like this, Casey knew it was just a matter of time before it either sleeted, hailed or lightninged. Just as he started to say something to LG, it started spitting sleet up and down the valley. All the early wildflowers sagged with it — the larkspur, lousewort, the astor. April sure was a fickle time of the year, Casey surmised, and slid off his horse.

  “Need me one of these,” Edwin told Casey, indicating his slicker.

  He came over to where LG and Casey were standing, with his hands jammed in his coat pockets. Edwin had lost a button somewhere and was using thread from the chuckwagon to hold it together.

  “Need you a thump on the head,” LG said to him.

  Just the day before, it had been sunny and bright. Now here it was, damp and gray, with a stillness hanging in the air. LG and Casey both unfurled their slickers. Edwin noticed Casey wearing his the other night and had been wondering about it ever since.

  “What is this damn thing anyways?”

  “Fish slicker,” Casey told him.

  He ran his arms through the sleeves and thumbed the buttons into place. The entire thing ran from his neck to the tops of his boots, camel-yellow with a narrow red collar. LG’s was identical except black.

  Edwin reached over and touched Casey’s sleeve.

  “Feels waxy or something.”

  “They wear these on the high seas, them sailors,” LG told him.

  “Keeps the rain out purty good,” Casey said. “Snow, too.”

  “This time of the year, up here in God’s country,” LG went on, “surprised we ain’t got hail pecking on us.”

  Their hats were getting matted with wet sleet. LG flicked his hat brim to dislodge what he could. Edwin could see the hired cowhands loitering near the herd. The cattle were bunched up in a wide bend of the creek. Even from this short distance, the falling sleet made the herd look blurry.

  “Not the best weather for this,” Casey said, looking back at the herd. “But I suppose we best string ‘em out — up the valley. My note papers gonna be soggy.”

  “Could have been branding in this shit,” Edwin observed, sagely.

  “Yep.”

  “Gotta swap my cutting horse for my circle horse,” LG announced. “A’fore we get to tallying.”

  LG remounted his sorrel, careful to drape the billows of his slicker to cover over his saddle. He clicked his tongue, and the horse carried him away. Edwin
and Casey watched him go. The sleet quickly blurred him out, too.

  “Come on,” Casey said to Edwin. “Let’s watch this.”

  The two of them climbed back on their horses and followed LG to the corral. When they got near the bunkhouse, they caught sight of the orange cookfire flames, sputtering. Emmanuel was huddled over it, feeding in branches to keep it going. He was too busy to even notice them go by.

  “Hey Gyp!” LG called. “Lend me a hand.”

  The new wrangler, Gyp — an older man with thin silver hair and a tall sugarloaf hat — came over to help while LG got the tack off his sorrel. He released the cinch strap, pulled it up and draped it over the saddle. He carried the saddle over to the wet fence and perched it on the top rail.

  “Got that ol’ boy?”

  “I got him.”

  Gyp had a purple polka-dot silk neckerchief wrapped loosely around his neck. He dipped his chin down into it for a minute to warm up. His nose was red with the cold, and he had been sneezing all morning. So much so, that Emmanuel had given him a bottle of Famous Francis’ Cure-All Ointment to sip from. Emmanuel bought the ointment at a traveling circus in Omaha two seasons prior from a dark man named Suneil. Suneil told Emmanuel he was born in Calcutta but raised in Boston, before joining the circus as a snake charmer. He also told the cook that the ointment cured him of snake poison, after all frequent bites were hazards of the trade, so surely it would work on arthritic knuckles and the backdoor trots.

  LG took his rope and slipped into the corral. Shaking it out, he stepped towards the remuda. The horses were wary — none of them ever liked being caught.

  Gyp held the sorrel by the bridle, watching as LG moved slowly into the horse herd.

  “How’s our jigger boss?” Casey asked him.

  “He’s doing alright,” Gyp replied, talking about himself in the third person.

  The horses skittered around like fish in a stock tank.

  It was good to have all this help. Whenever Til brought on new hands, he frequently chose pairs who were already friendly. Lee and Davis used to ride together up in Estes Park. Rufe and Steve McGonkin were brothers. Gyp knew Ira — at one point, they both worked down at the Iliff Ranch and knew each other from those days. Til hired them in pairs, which was his normal practice.