Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  Chapter 16

  Ward

  General Merchandise

  Standing at the window, Julianna was uneasy.

  “Miss, there is a room available at Hugh’s,” the man said. “Or you are welcome to spend the hours across the way. Hammet’s Theatre is open. They got a Negro minstrel lineup. Be strummin’ till the sunrise.”

  Julianna held her shawl close, cupping a hand to the window so she could see through the thick glass. She sighed quietly and turned away. It was dark outside and she was not going to drive the buckboard home after dark on such a cold night.

  “Thank you for thinking of my well-being,” she said politely.

  The owner of the General Merchandise was Terrance Tillamook. Terrance Tillamook was a husky middle-aged man whose hair was salt and pepper gray.

  “My wife would ream me if I did not think to ask,” he mentioned kindly.

  “It would be the ruination of you,” his wife Joyetta said, her voice carrying authoritatively. She had just appeared from the stock room. “Weather and chill! Traveling at this hour in the cold? No, no, no.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I do concur with good judgment.”

  The room was stacked with bags of flour, kegs of lard, dried meats, textiles, fabrics, racks of clothing, blankets, tin cups and plates, iron pots and skillets. Julianna walked slowly back through, stopping at the linens.

  The door opened, and Josephine stepped inside the store. She looked around the room until she caught sight of Julianna’s brown hair.

  “There you are!”

  Julianna ignored her. She pretended to examine the colorful linens. Josephine came over and joined her at the fabric rack. A salmon-colored silk caught her eye.

  “This would make beautiful drapes for my kitchen. Don’t you think?”

  She glanced at Julianna, who was ignoring her.

  “Come with me,” Josephine pleaded in a regretful tone.

  Julianna set her jaw but allowed the other woman to link arms and lead her out the door.

  Through the big storefront window, Terrance and Joyette Tillamook watched them go.

  “I wonder if she wants that salmon silk or not?” Joyette asked.

  “If she wanted it, she would have bought it.”

  “Now, Terrance, maybe she would like me to set it aside for when she comes back.”

  “She didn’t say anything of the sort. And what if someone else walks in lookin’ for salmon silk?”

  Josephine and Julianna walked down Main Street. The road was situated on a steep hill and in the evening hours it could be difficult to navigate on foot. The wheel ruts were lost in the shadows and it was easy to trip. There was light shining from the various businesses they passed: the Halfway House, the Miser’s Brewery, Ezekiel’s Blacksmith & Farrier Shop, Hammet’s Theatre, the telegraph office.

  Looking out over the forested hills around Ward, they could see all the lanterns and lighted windows scattered about in the darkness. There were only a few electric lights in Ward, and only the more prosperous businesses had them. All of the residential homes relied on lanterns and candles. Julianna still liked the homey glow of a natural flame. She thought the electric lights, though progressive, gave her a hollow feeling. She was still feeling hollow from all the sour dinner table talk.

  “Samuel wants to move us to Horseshoe,” Josephine mentioned.

  Julianna gave her a side-glance.

  “What? Why?” she asked.

  Josephine sniffed indifferently.

  “They just opened the Hilltop Mine. Samuel thinks his claim is all played out here.”

  The two women walked along quietly. The wind was swishing gently through the treetops and there was a little snow in the air.

  They passed the Haw & Gee Saloon and could hear people talking and laughing through the open doorway. They even had a piano in there. It was the only one in town. The evening had just begun for a lot of people. Julianna liked Ward. It was a nice town — much bigger than Gold Hill. All her friends lived here. Sometimes she wished she lived here, too.

  “He thinks he’ll have an easier go. Hears talk about a big chamber inside. They call it the Ice Palace,” Josephine rolled her eyes. “All glittery with mineral.”

  As she said it, her voice cracked. Julianna knew she was about to cry.

  “Working inside a mountain is different than an open placer on a river,” she continued. “Dirty, dark. Dangerous.”

  Julianna listened patiently.

  “The mine sits way up top of Mount Sheridan,” Joesphine said sadly. “He won’t be coming home for supper every night, I can tell you that.”

  The road angled steeply downhill. The noise and bustle of downtown dimmed with distance. Several riders went by in the darkness, hoofsteps clopping loudly.

  “Julianna, I am sorry about earlier,” Josephine said softly. “I had no cause to say such things. Family is family.”

  “My father’s an old Indian fighter,” Julianna pointed out. “Your Samuel mines the earth. No one’s what we want them to be. But they are what we need them to be.”

  They turned up a small road and stopped at Josephine’s front door. It was a small frame house with bright yellow paint and white eaves and evergreens towering on each side. A lantern burned in the main window.

  “Life seems to be rushing me,” Josephine said, her voice unsteady.

  The women stood quietly in the cold evening air. A few flakes fell on their shoulders and hats.

  “Come inside. We’ll be eating soon,” Josephine told her. “Please stay. We’ve got the spare room all ready for you.”

  Chapter 17

  Spring Gulch

  “Keep an eye out for Ol’ Mose.”

  LG’s voice was solemn. He left it at that. Specter took off and it wasn’t long before LG was out of sight in the pine up ahead.

  The cattle were strung out in a long line. The herd was slowly winding its way through the trees. Ira and Edwin rode together — Ira had an appaloosa named Berry Picker and Edwin was on a dark bay they just called Dark Bay.

  Ira’s face crinkled up with the information, but Edwin was confused.

  “Now who in the hell is Ol’ Mose?” Edwin shouted after LG.

  But LG was gone.

  Ira became fidgety with this new information. He twisted in the saddle, looking sharply to the left and right. He squinted and stared hard into the forest. It was hard to see very far in the dusky shadows.

  Edwin was almost waiting for an explanation, but by this point he knew Ira wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.

  “Ira. What on God’s green earth is LG talking about now?”

  Ira broke from his trance and glanced over.

  “Ol’ Mose,” he said knowingly, head dipping to add emphasis.

  “Yeah, heard that part, dumb-bob.”

  “Ain’t you heard of Ol’ Mose, Edwin?” Ira asked, incredulous.

  Ira waited for an answer to his own question but Edwin refused to respond to what he considered a dull query. He merely stared hard at Ira.

  “I always thunk Ol’ Mose kept his company up on 39-Mile Mountain,” Ira said finally.

  Edwin looked back down the line and caught a glimpse of another rider. It was Steve.

  “Hey, McGonkin!” Edwin called out loudly. His voice seemed to get absorbed by the forest.

  Steve trotted towards them, cutting around the tree trunks to catch up.

  “Ira here can’t make his words and it’s ticking me off squarely.”

  “Ol’ Mose!” Ira whispered tensely to Steve.

  Steve cracked a smile and chuckled to himself.

  “Ain’t gonna get et tonight, Ira.”

  Edwin looked across the cows at Steve expectantly.

  “Mose is a grizz,” Steve explained. “Prob’ly the last one in South Park.”

  “We ain’t in South Park,” Edwin stated.

  “Damn straight, and good thing we’re not,” Steve replied. “That grizz been eatin’ cowboys…upwards of, well, sin
ce the ’60s I suppose. Before any of us was born, except maybe Ira here.”

  “Ain’t no grizzly out here,” Edwin said contemptuously. “You’re stupid, Ira. LG’s just playing a gag on us and like a simpleton you fell for it.”

  “Now, you heard about poor Jake Radcliffe,” Steve cautioned. “That was just three years ago.”

  “No, I ain’t heard of no Jake Radcliffe,” Edwin replied.

  Steve’s face got serious.

  “Ain’t fooling. Radcliffe went after that ol’ bear, all around Black Mountain. Tracked him for ten days straight.”

  “Got et up,” Ira added.

  “Just about,” Steve said. “Clawed up bad. Took him down to the Mulock ranch — the IM. Sent for the doc…but the man didn’t live that long.”

  Edwin rode silently. He shifted his eyes toward the dark trees.

  “Kilt near 800 head o’ cattle,” Steve said and nodded thoughtfully. “Well, over the years.”

  A few snowflakes pittered past.

  “Well, look at me all puckered!”

  Edwin’s sharp laugh was meant to convey sarcasm and bravado. But it was pretty thin.

  “Gonna shit me a penny.”

  Chapter 18

  South of Beaver Creek

  Except for Bit Ear, who was a faithful and rather stoic quarterhorse, Til was his own company. A thin crust of fresh snow made following the path difficult. It was barely more than a deer trail to begin with. The bay’s hoofs broke through the crust with each step, making a loud gritty sound in the stillness.

  The shadows got deeper as the evening settled in, which made the trail even harder to see. Ever since the sun went down, Til had not seen any wildlife. But that was no surprise. With this spring storm passing through, most of the forest critters were surely waiting it out.

  “Bedded down or holed up,” Til told the big bay. “Which is where we ought to be.”

  He reached down and patted Bit Ear’s neck several times. The smell of damp horseflesh was strong. A chilly fog had begun to roll in, too. The treetops soared up overhead and were lost in the mist and the fading light.

  Sitting up straight, Til yawned. He wiggled his toes inside his boots to get the circulation going.

  Two thousand head did not constitute a large herd, but it was a decent size. And it was all he had at the moment. Til knew he could cut out the yearlings and two-year olds, continue to graze them at the Wyoming pasture. It wasn’t too far away from Cheyenne, and he could be at the railyards in a matter of an hour or two. It was far more convenient than Beaver Creek, but then Beaver Creek was just the high summer grazing pasture. Normally the cattle he took up there, stayed up there until fall. With the market in such a bad state, this was not a normal season. He knew he would get a top price. But he had to be in the right place at the right time to get it. He was racing the big cattle companies now, and it was important to lock in all the buyers he could find.

  A bat flew right past the crown of his hat, made a choppy turn and flapped off into the gray fog.

  “Well there’s at least something breathing besides me.”

  But the bat did not come back.

  The trees opened up, and he found himself in a small alpine meadow. Til had been through here a couple times over the years, but the ground was normally dry enough by then that he could see where the trail went. But given the heavy winter, it was still under snow, and — if he was being honest — Til wasn’t even sure where he was. Fir and pine gave way to aspen, and the slim white trunks were evenly spaced. The trail could be anywhere.

  Til brought Bit Ear to a standstill.

  Scanning the far side of the meadow, Til tried to remember anything familiar. He shivered. When he was not moving, it got cold quick. It was going to be a long dark night, and in these conditions it was not wise to stop for long — even if he knew exactly where he was.

  “You figure it out,” he told Bit Ear and urged the bay on with loose reins. His hoofs crunched along the ground as he stepped forward hesitantly.

  It soon became obvious the trail was a lost cause.

  Til spent a few minutes chewing it over. He knew the general lay of the land well enough. He was travelling down a forested gully, so really there was only one way to go. Plus, the stars would be visible once it got dark enough — if this fog would just lift.

  The aspen grove petered out, and he was soon surrounded by evergreen again. The snowbanks got deep where the trees grew close together, especially on the north-facing slopes.

  Til was wet from getting sleeted on back at Beaver Creek. The fog didn’t help. The sunlight was gone now, although he could tell there must be a sliver of a moon somewhere up above. He wore his thick sheepskin coat — which was helpful — and even had a special pair of fur-lined gloves he bought off a trapper several seasons back.

  Bit Ear kept moving along at a slow walk. They worked through the underbrush and tree trunks, past granite outcroppings and boulders. Whenever he felt pine needles rake across the brim of his hat, Til ducked low in the saddle. More than once, he nearly lost a kneecap when the big bay pressed on between tree trunks. If he hadn’t been wearing thick angora chaps, he would have.

  The terrain curved steeply downhill. Descending slowly in the darkness, Til continued to let the bay have his head. He always chose Bit Ear for journeys that ran late — he was a reliable night horse.

  Looking rather ghostly in the fog and moonlight, Til could make out a white line somewhere up ahead. He thought it might be a stream. The slope steepened and he leaned back with it. The saddle leather creaked.

  The white line grew wider as he got closer. Soon, it was right in his path. That was odd. Til was expecting to hear running water the closer he got — but it was silent.

  The forest was black all around him. The fog was thinning.

  Sliding down the last few steps heavily, the bay stepped out onto hard-packed ground. The white line was not a creek after all. It was a stage road, glowing softly in the silvery moonlight.

  It was a welcome sight. Til knew exactly where he was now.

  Collecting his reins with certainty, he pointed Bit Ear down the road. Ward was only a few more miles away. The road was fairly straight and stretched on into the night. As he lost elevation, the fog kept thinning until it was gone. In what little moonlight he had, Til noticed wheel tracks in the thin snow. There were also hoof prints and spats of manure. The road was well-traveled and just being on it made it seem like there were people around. In a big forest in the middle of a cold night, even Til could appreciate the feeling that he wasn’t alone.

  Another hour passed before he caught the unmistakable scent of woodsmoke. The road made a twisty curve and the trees thinned enough he could see the eastern horizon.

  He knew Ward was right down there. He had made it.

  Most of the homes he passed were tucked back in the trees. They were all dark.

  The stage road led right through downtown Ward. The Haw & Gee Saloon was the only place open. The door was closed but light shined brightly through the windows. Til decided he was too tired to stop for even a cup of coffee. He went straight to the livery barn between the Halfway House and the corrals. The aisle door was sealed up tight. He pulled it open and led his horse inside.

  Til put Bit Ear in an empty stall, then double checked the aisle door. On a cold night, just closing up the barn trapped in the body heat of all the animals. It kept everything warm inside.

  As soon as Til closed the door, he lost the moonlight. He untacked and groomed the bay by touch. Taking the saddle and Navajo blanket with him, Til walked blindly down the pitch-dark aisle. The hay was easy to find. He could smell it. He set his saddle down against the wall. His Navajo blanket was damp with horse sweat, so he draped it over a beam. Til spread out his bedroll in the hay stack, but before he laid down he took an armful of hay back for Bit Ear.

  Chapter 19

  Mining Camp

  Continental Divide

  Someone upslope slipped. Stones skittered
past Bill’s head and rolled off into the darkness. He took a deep breath, gripping the rope even tighter. The last thing Bill needed was to get cracked in the skull because one of those fools kicked a rock loose. If he slipped, he wouldn’t stop until he hit the ice pooled at the bottom of the shaft. He knew there was ice, because he had just pushed an unlucky miner down here a few hours earlier.

  “Get that light near me.”

  Bill’s voice echoed. Granger edged down the slope so he could get close to Bill. He held the lamp up high. Shadows danced along the walls.

  “A lot warmer in here than up on that damn ridge,” Granger said.

  Bill’s eyes glistened in the harsh light. He reached up to the lantern knob and adjusted the wick where he wanted it. Granger irritated him. If the man was going to stick the lamp in his face, he could at least turn it down a bit.

  Granger could tell Bill was irritated. He tried to keep the lantern as steady as he could. It was hard to hold onto the rope and the lantern at the same time. The mine shaft was steep, too, like a ramp.

  “Welcome to nest,” Bill suggested.

  Just below, Bill could tell the floor leveled out. He scooted down the slope until he could stand upright safely. Barely ten steps across, the shaft dropped abruptly straight down. Granger came down awkwardly. He slid the last few feet down the slope. Shadows flickered all over the place.

  “Watch it!” Bill warned him. “Don’t bump me.”

  He knelt down and examined the wall. He had brought along a pickax from the cabin. He spotted a convenient cleft and chipped away to make it wider.

  Ned came down the rope and stood by Granger, watching Bill work. Bill glanced up at him.

  “This’ll do.”

  Ned put his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. Lem and Will Wyllis started making their way down the shaft. They brought down two heavy saddle bags. It was all the gold they stole from the Kinsey City bank. Bill sighed. He wished they had stolen paper cash money instead. Gold was too heavy to ride far with. And he suspected the sheriff Vincent shot was most likely dead by then. That meant there would be lawmen coming. Distance was the most important thing now. And distance meant traveling light.