Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  Ira rode in just then. He brought his horse right up to the fire and stopped. He looked down at LG.

  “Cows a-stirring.”

  LG glanced back up at him, waiting for more.

  “And?”

  Shifting in his saddle, Ira looked blank.

  Davis was not finished with his story.

  “The good reverend used to guide folks right up to the summit of Longs Peak, for five whole dollars. His boy Carlyle is doing it these days.”

  “Guides them?” Edwin asked, confused. “People pay to climb mountains?”

  “Hell, yes. Next season, you should hire onto one of the ranches up there,” Lee told the boy. “I worked for WE James last season — he runs the Elkhorn ranch. You should sign on there yourself…peeling broncs, punching cattle.”

  Holding up his fingers, Davis began counting.

  “There’s five different spreads up in Estes,” he said. “The Fergusons, the Lambs, Spragues, MacGregors, and Jameses.”

  Ira realized he was out of the conversation, so he turned his horse around and rode toward the aspen grove. He got down and let his horse nose through the frosty grass. There was no reason to untack his horse since they would be moving again after breakfast was over.

  “I heard some Irish lord is buying up all the land,” Casey said.

  “The Earl of Dunraven,” said Davis, with a frown. “Locals hate that ol’ boy.”

  “Thinks high of himself,” Lee explained. “Wants to own the whole dern park. Turn it into his very own private hunting preserve.”

  “Going to be trouble before that all pans out.”

  Edwin stood up straight, stretching his arms high above his head.

  “I ain’t interested in working for no damn Earl,” he said with a yawn. “I am interested in some damn flapjacks.”

  At the chuckwagon, Emmanuel was rooting around the tool box. He hoped they would keep chatting because the coffee mill was bound up.

  Chapter 28

  Ward

  Their breath blew out in white puffs, but the mules stood quietly and waited in the chilly air.

  “Check Bitty’s right front,” Jim Everitt said. He worked along the harness buckles, securing them.

  Ian Mitchell leaned down and softly pressed his shoulder against Bitty the mule’s upper leg — to let her know he was there. Then he brushed his hand down the backside of her knee and fetlock, and took hold of the hoof. Bitty shifted her weight, and Ian lifted her foot off the ground. These mules were bigger than regular horses, some kind of draft cross — he wasn’t sure what, though. Ian examined the sole, using a hoof pick to clean it out.

  “Shoe’s loose.”

  “Must of happened o’er night in the corral,” Jim said. “Not like that yesterday.”

  Jim removed his hat and scratched his scalp. He walked around the mules and bent down to look it over. Ian held the hoof up so he could see.

  “Have to pull it,” Jim decided. “Tack it back on again.”

  “Either do it ourselves,” Ian suggested slowly. “Or we traipse on over and get Hugh to pack us up some steak cuts…while someone else does.”

  Standing up tall, Jim stretched and groaned at the thought of horseshoeing on a chilly morning — in the shade nonetheless.

  “My back has been rather tangy.”

  The men looked at each other.

  “I’ll get the farrier.”

  Gently, Ian set Bitty’s hoof back down. The sun was high enough now to light up the top of the Halfway House. It was still early and still cold but smoke was already pumping out of the chimney. Jim headed down Main Street towards the blacksmith shop. Ian watched him go and began the process of getting Bitty out of the team. He removed her headstall and bit, undid the traces, and led her out from behind the singletree.

  “He could have noticed this sort of thing prior to tacking up,” Ian told Bitty in a tart whisper.

  He led the big mule away from the stagecoach and tied her to a hitching post. The other mules watched closely, with their big ears perked up and listening. They wondered if grain was somehow involved in this turn of events. Ian rubbed her on the neck.

  “Which one of these hambones was bothering you, huh Bitty?”

  Bitty turned her large head and looked back at the other mules, which were still traced up.

  “Yeah, I thought so,” Ian said, following her gaze. “Buckshay…you wild ass. Let her alone.”

  A couple cowhands passed by and saw him talking to the mules. It was young Billy McCoy and his little brother Bobby.

  “Mornin’, Jehu,” Billy McCoy said rather snidely.

  “Scamper off, you skunks.”

  They laughed and went into the Halfway House. Ian shook his head. The McCoy boys had little in the way of social graces. Last time he drove through Ward, someone shoveled steaming horse turds inside the coach. Got the mail all cruddy. He suspected the McCoy brothers.

  Ian patted Bitty on the neck and then decided to remove her collar. Grabbing it by the hame, he set it on the ground and propped it against the fence.

  “Stand easy, we’ll get that shoe tacked on right.”

  It was not long until Jim came back. He was walking with another man. It was the shoer, whose name was Zeke. Zeke carried a hammer, nippers, rasp, and wore a short leather apron.

  “Move,” Zeke said to Ian, rather bluntly.

  Ian stepped away. Taking up Bitty’s hoof, the shoer pinched it between his knees. He looked it over, nodding thoughtfully to himself. Using the nippers, he began to pry off the shoe.

  Jim and Ian watched him work for a minute.

  “Just leave ‘er there when you’re done,” Jim told him. “Gonna be at Hugh’s.”

  Zeke did not look up or even say a word. He was glad they were leaving. He preferred to work without the customers looming over him. Criticism was an irritation to Zeke and so were customers. Getting the job done well and right was always easiest when there was no one telling him how to do his job — when in fact he knew exactly what to do and how to do it.

  After a moment, Jim Everitt realized Zeke was not going to answer. He shrugged, and he and Ian Mitchell headed for the Halfway House. It was time for one last decent meal before they headed on down the canyon.

  “Way I figure it, we either pack out Xin’s cooking or else gum on that johnnycake we get stocked with.”

  Ian shook his head and chimed in his salt.

  “Grand courtesy of the Overland Stage.”

  They went inside. Ian Mitchell saw the McCoy boys. They were sitting at a table not too far away. At first, he felt like turning right around and heading back outside. They could just as easily get a meal over at the Miser’s Brewery. But then almost as quickly, he decided to stay where he was and eat in there. Ian realized that if he could see the McCoy brothers, he knew right where they were. And if they were right there, then they weren’t shoveling steaming horse turds into his stagecoach.

  Chapter 29

  Poqito and Caverango leaned on the fence rail. They were watching the hostler rope the horses in the corral. Of course, the horses did not want to get roped. They were giving him a run for it. Bill was getting antsy, waiting. They needed fresh horses, but this was taking far too long. The posse from Grand Lake could be riding into Ward any minute and he wanted to get out of there before they did.

  Bill turned around and paced past the corral. It was hard to watch an inept hostler try and throw a loop when time was of the essence. Then he noticed the stagecoach parked nearby and the farrier running a rasp across Bitty the mule’s right front foot. Bill marched over and looked over Zeke’s shoulder.

  “Where’s that coach headed?”

  Zeke had his head down and kept working. Zeke hated being interrupted by casual talk. Full concentration was important when working on a hoof. He might accidentally drive a nail into the white line, or quick a horse during a trim. That would be a shame and an embarrassment for a professional horseshoer to make a mistake simply because of idle conversation which
he did not care for in the first place. Zeke glanced up to see who was interrupting him, gave Bill a disapproving glare, then went back to work.

  Vincent watched all this. He walked right over and leaned so close to Zeke that Zeke could feel his breath on his neck. This was far too close for Zeke’s preference. Didn’t this fellow realize he was getting in the way? He sighed heavily. Zeke hated doing his work outside where anybody and their cousin could just walk right up and get in the way, or badger him with the same basic questions about horse hooves he’d heard a thousand times over.

  “He said where’s it headed?” Vincent reminded Zeke.

  The horseshoer was getting irritated now. He knew he should have made Jim Everitt walk this dang-blasted mule right on down the hill to his blacksmith shop. He could have tacked this shoe on in privacy and not have to put up with irritating questions or people standing too close.

  “When a body’s talking to you,” Vincent said to Zeke, “a response would be polite.”

  But again, Zeke did not say anything. Not saying anything was Zeke’s way of letting people know their questions were unwelcome.

  Bill watched Vincent’s face start to get red. The veins in his neck started to pulse and stick out. It was the same look he had when they shanghaied the deputy in the Grand Lake courthouse — and Vincent had come very close to shooting the unconscious deputy in the head.

  “Remember Grand Lake,” Bill warned. “A quiet passage would have been preferable.”

  But Vincent did not move and his face was still red. Bill tried again.

  “Put holes in a man, would be leaving a more trackable swath.”

  Zeke looked up at the two men, especially the one standing a little too close. He stopped rasping Bitty’s hoof abruptly, midstroke. Zeke suddenly had a fluttery feeling in his stomach. Like the time last fall when he became so impatient with Hugh’s Arabian gelding, who simply would not stand while he was being trimmed, that Zeke whacked the rasp in the gelding’s side. It was a hard slap but the horse did not flinch — the gelding slowly turned his dark eyes and looked at Zeke in such a hateful way, it gave him the fluttery feeling in his stomach.

  “Well verily, Bill, you may be in the right,” Vincent replied, softening.

  Without another word, the two men turned around and headed back to the corral. Zeke was still hunched under the mule, holding his rasp against Bitty’s upturned hoof. Zeke wondered if he should just walk this mule right on down to the shop and finish up there. Why did he even leave the shop today? He knew better. Trying to tack a shoe on a mule, right here on Main Street was not even a gamble — it was a guarantee: a guarantee that he would be interrupted. When Jim Everitt came in, he should have told him to bring the mule down if he wanted the shoe tacked on.

  “Vamanos,” Caverango called to Bill. “Quatro cow horses, and tres fresh broke mesteños.”

  “Pay the horse trader,” Bill instructed Vincent.

  “And pick us the ones that are well busted,” he added under his breath. “They can ride those mustangs.”

  Coming out of the General Merchandise, Lem and Granger saw everyone standing around the corral and headed over. They were carrying supplies they just bought.

  “Got some rounds and shells here,” Lem told Bill.

  Granger had a sack full of groceries. Ned went up to him and pulled open the sack to see what he had.

  “Your eye’s all swolled up,” Ned pointed out.

  “Can see just fine,” Granger replied, but in fact his eye was swollen and hurt like hell. “Fine enough to blast your guts all over this street.”

  “Surly…and a swolled peeper,” Ned said. “You’ll make a fine trail companion today.”

  Granger wasn’t about to mention he had lost another tooth. It was bad enough his eye got mashed by the door. The worst part was that none of them even got a scratch. Except Will Wyllis, of course, who was shot in the gut and the head.

  Lem and Ned walked off towards the corral gate. The Mexicans were leading out the new horses. Robins and bluejays were chirping up in a cottonwood nearby. Granger set the grocery sack down and collected stones to throw at the birds while he waited.

  Bill looked down Main Street. The road was beginning to fill up with miners and townspeople, horses and freight wagons. The rising sun was getting hot, too — Bill looked up at the sky and squinted.

  “Warming up.”

  Vincent nodded. He held his long-tailed coat folded over his left arm.

  “We stay here any longer, gonna run our luck.”

  “I’ll tell the boys to saddle up,” Vincent said. “And I’ll talk to that bronc-stomper — see which of these fine beasts Granger deserves. Make sure he gets a top choice.”

  Bill nodded, still squinting at the sky.

  “Find one that lacks in girth, grace and finish.”

  Chapter 30

  Spring Gulch

  “When I was out a-ridin’

  the graveyard shift midnight till dawn…

  well the moon was as bright as a readin’ light;

  for a letter from an old friend back home.”

  LG’s singing voice was clear and loud. It was a trail song.

  “He asked me, why do you ride for your money?

  Why do you rope for short pay?

  You ain’t gettin’ nowhere, and you’re losing your share;

  aww, you must have gone crazy out there.”

  Riding point with Casey, LG turned in his saddle and checked behind him. He spotted Lee and Davis, one on each side of the cowline, only a hundred yards back.

  “You boys are too far up,” LG shouted. “Don’t lose me any cows today. Get on back.”

  “Admirin’ your fine tenor voice,” Davis replied. But both of them stopped and let the cows walk by for a while.

  Suddenly, Edwin emerged from the trees, passed Lee and Davis at a trot and rode right up to LG. The flour sack Emmanuel had given him was tied around his head like a turban.

  “What’s wrong?” LG asked him.

  “Ira’s driving me batty. Need a change of scenery.”

  “Why don’t you ride drag with those McGonkin nitwits?” LG suggested. “With that handsome bonnet, you’d fit right in.”

  “I prefer company with a nugget in the brainpan.”

  LG nodded — that was understandable. The sky overhead was completely cloudless. Quite a contrast from the sleety weather they had the day before. All the trees were dripping and the layer of powder snow was starting to soak into the ground.

  “Well, stay up here and chat with us a bit.”

  Casey looked over at LG in mild surprise. LG winked at him.

  “Got you a little lady tucked away somewhere?”

  Edwin immediately untied the flour sack from his head. He felt like a fool wearing it, but Emmanuel was right. It did keep his head warm.

  “There was some heifers at the CK up in Glendive. Didn’t catch my fancy.”

  “Glendive? Montana’s a far piece.”

  Sitting a little straighter in the saddle, Edwin nodded nonchalantly.

  “I git around.”

  “You ain’t sparking no pretty schoolmarm?”

  The boy turned red. He wadded up the flour sack and threw it at the lead steer.

  “Hell. Girls was scarce at the CK. A cowman who managed to spear himself a steady girl, well — he was above the rest.”

  LG clucked his tongue sympathetically.

  “Bottom of the herd ain’t fun.”

  Edwin gritted his teeth and looked at Casey for help. But Casey was riding along, not saying a word. The boy shook his head in frustration.

  “Damnation! Easier riding with the drags.”

  Edwin turned his horse and started walking away. Tilting his head back, LG laughed and waved at Edwin.

  “I’m just playing. Don’t go. You know the old saying…no cowboy can summer a girl or winter a slicker.”

  “I’d say we’re closing out of Spring Gulch,” Casey noted. Up ahead, the gulch made a southerly ben
d between the hills. LG took Specter up to a trot and went to see what was up ahead.

  “Boy, that guy sure likes to get at me,” Edwin said and spat on the ground.

  Casey gave him a genuine, friendly look.

  “He’s just hooking his spurs in you,” Casey told him. “LG wouldn’t poke at you, if you weren’t a prime favorite.”

  Edwin snorted.

  “Gonna make a first-class fuss, if he keeps at me.”

  The day was turning out to be a nice one. It had warmed up enough already that Casey took off his winter coat and gloves, and tied them behind the saddle. At night, he knew he would need them again. But while it was sunny, he meant to enjoy it.

  “We cowpunchers have to hang together,” Casey said proverbially. “Or we will hang separately.

  Chapter 31

  Ward

  “Union Station, stockyards. Stop. DR&G. Stop.”

  With a close-trimmed beard, studious eyes and circular rims, Mr. James looked like a serious telegrapher. He propped his arm on the table and poised his hand. He was a serious telegrapher and took every message to be as important as the one before. Whether it was an aunt writing her niece, a housewife ordering a percolator from the Montgomery Ward catalog, or a banker wiring funds to Europe, James gave them all his attention. He glanced up, ready for the next line.

  “Two thousand, thirty-three head,” Til said.

  Mr. James nodded and tapped out the message on the steel lever key. Til’s eyes wandered out the front window. While the interior of this little shack was gloomy, he could see the bright sunlight through the window and looked forward to getting back out there. Til would never want to be a telegrapher himself. Just being in there made him feel cooped up. Glancing back at Mr. James, Til noticed the tapping had stopped and the man was ready for more. Til chose his words with care in order to convey the message in as few words as possible, to save unnecessary expense.

  “Arrival by week’s end. Rail to Wyoming. Stop.”

  Mr. James finished coding the information, then lifted his hand and wiggled his fingers.