by Mark Mitten
“If I may,” Merle began, clearing his throat again. “We do not deny the rascality of that troupe. But they’ve led us far afield. And we’ve just gone and buried how many good folk?”
He looked around the room with a challenging look in his eye.
“Now their sign has been obscured by them Polangus. I can’t make nothing out. Even in the morning light we won’t know which way they went. Up that gulch or down the road? Them curly wolfs might have even split up and went both ways, for all we can tell. Like they did when they took you for a loop, Leavick.”
Ben glared back but did not interrupt.
“We should consider our options,” Merle said, pausing thoughtfully. “And obligations.”
But that was too much for Ben. He dropped his fork on his plate with a loud clank.
The barn owls turned their heads toward the sound.
“Holy hell! Options? Obligations? What kind of talk is this, Griff?”
“It’s real talk,” Merle said sternly. “Real wives and real children and real business to attend. And God only knows if they’re heading back up that way right now. May be doubling back to shoot up our town while we’re looking the wrong way.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Roy said and nodded.
Merle frowned severely. He leaned forward in his chair to convey the gravity of his words.
“Our wives and children are sitting up there…without us to defend them.”
Ben’s face was dark. He pounded the tabletop, making all the dishes clatter. It startled Julianna who jumped in her seat. Griff saw her jump, and pointed sharply at Ben.
“I feel it ever bit as you do, Ben! I worked close with the man for years, if you will remember.”
Then Griff sighed, set his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes.
“We can’t expect everyone here to ride on forever,” he continued in a resigned tone. “This posse has been riding for days now…and we’re getting farther and farther away from our homes.”
“And families,” Merle added again.
He raised his hands up solemnly.
“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. We best let God Almighty remunerate this injustice.”
“This ain’t Sunday School, Hastings! We got to right this wrong!” Ben shouted.
“Hate it as much as you do,” Griff said, softly.
“All of us agree they need to be tied down,” Merle said. “We are not saying it ain’t worth pursuing…we just can’t keep going on like this.”
The rancher placed his dinnerware on the table in a formerly manner and brushed at his shirt for crumbs.
“My boys and I are heading back to Grand Lake with the first light.”
Sliding back his chair, Merle stood up. He surveyed the room one last time. Ben just shook his head. What else could he say?
“Many thanks for the fixings, Miss. It was well timed. I shall retire to my bedroll, under the stars.”
Merle went outside, and all his ranch hands filed out stoically behind him. They all left without saying a word.
For a long minute, the only sound in the room was Casey’s labored breathing and the crackling of the fireplace. Julianna turned and looked him over, assessing his condition. He was pale as a ghost and still lost in thought.
Casey had not said a thing during the entire meal.
Neither had The Commodore. He was the only one who kept working on his supper plate, no matter which way the conversation turned. He even reached for seconds on the bread rolls. The Commodore hoped this group was thoughtful enough to leave some money behind for the food they consumed and the inconvenience they posed. The Commodore did not care for guests. Company in general was exhausting. He would prefer it if they all rode out immediately, and he almost decided to say just that. But he held his tongue. If he said anything of the sort out loud, he knew Julianna would have strong words for him.
The Commodore weighed his options carefully when it came to upsetting his daughter. He knew from experience that if he made her angry, it would upset his chances at dessert. And he knew she had bought fresh apples and sugar up in Ward in order to make a fresh pie. The Commodore liked apple pie very much. It was hard to restrain himself, but he managed to. He didn’t want to jeopardize his chances at fresh apple pie.
Chapter 48
A bat flopped silently past Casey’s ear and snapped at a mosquito. He tried to raise his arm to shoo it away, but it was already gone. He knew right away that he pulled something — his chest felt like it caught fire. But he said nothing since Julianna was standing right there. He felt his balance waver and took an awkward step to regain it.
“Easy,” Julianna said, noticing.
She held the lantern high as they walked. The night air was very chilly, and they were both wearing winter coats. Julianna had offered him The Commodore’s coat, since Casey lost his in Lefthand Canyon. She shivered, walking slowly to accommodate Casey’s gait.
The kerosene lamp flickered steadily and quietly. The flame was yellow and it cast a good amount of light around them, causing shadows to dance as they moved.
“Much further ahead?”
“A little further,” she told him.
The thin cloud cover had dissolved and the stars were out now, and bright. But Casey noticed a big dark cloud-bank to the west. It looked like a giant black blanket scrolling across the sky, eating up the stars.
“It’s just up there,” Julianna pointed out in a soft voice. “Watch your step, there’s a low iron fence.”
In the lantern light, Casey could just make out the fence in the darkness. Except for a few patches of snow the ground was basically dry. A thick bed of pine needles and moss made the footing feel spongy. Inside the fence were about a dozen tombstones.
Casey tried to look around, although his chest really bothered him whenever he twisted even a small amount. Tall conifers rose straight up to the sky, encircling the small cemetery. The moon was directly overhead and it seemed like all the trees were pointing straight at it.
“Your friends are over here.”
Julianna’s fingers were cold. She gripped the lift wire and held the lantern up as high as she could. She led him to two mounds of freshly turned dirt.
“I’ll need to carve up some crosses,” Casey said, more to himself.
Julianna checked on him from the corner of her eye, trying not to stare impolitely. Their breath hung in the moonlight.
“Edwin, you were just green,” he said quietly. “Could’ve been a top hand one day…if you had the chance.”
He shifted his weight and sighed.
“Sorry for you, Ira,” he said, speaking to the other mound. “Never caused a fuss.”
There were only two new graves. Casey noticed that.
“Where are the stage drivers buried?”
“Wrapped in a tarp. Deputy Allen thought it best to send them back up to Ward with the stagecoach. He’s going to drive it up there himself tomorrow.”
Julianna paused.
“That other dead man, the killer…they’re taking him all the way back to Grand Lake.”
They stood silently in the graveyard. Another bat flew overhead, snapping at the insects drawn in by the lantern.
“What are you going to do?”
“Not sure,” Casey replied. “The B-Cross is ruined. The boys are dead. Maybe all of them, I don’t know. I’m not sure what to do.”
He reached up and covered his eyes with his hand. In the stillness Julianna heard him struggling to keep his emotions in check. She lowered the lantern to give him a moment.
Exhaling in one long breath, Casey wiped his eyes and stared at the graves.
“Nothing I could do. They fired on us without no call. Ira. Edwin. Dead like that, and I was next in line.”
He swallowed hard and pressed his palm to his forehead, squeezing his eyes closed tight.
“It’ll be okay,” Julianna told him, her voice kind with sympathy.
“I thought if I got away,” he whispered. “I could have...�
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The treetops stirred and swayed. Looking up at the dark cloud-bank again, Casey could tell another cold front was coming in. There might even be more snow in the morning. Was this winter ever going to end?
“Can’t let it weigh too heavy, Casey,” she said softly. “Their dying wasn’t on you. Those were hard men.”
Julianna set the lamp on the ground and placed her hands on his forearm for reassurance. She could tell he was shaking, with cold or pain or grief. Maybe all of it.
“Times like this are hard to understand,” she said. “But you have to play the cards you’ve been dealt. Sometimes they’re bad cards…but you mustn’t be broken by it.”
They stood together for a few minutes, without speaking. Casey could not help but stare at the graves. His compadres were right there, under the dirt. Six feet under, the saying went. When just the day before they were trailing the same herd, drinking the same coffee, eating the same 3-day beans.
“You make damn sure you hold up now,” she said firmly, sweetly. “Or they will have gotten you, too.”
It was getting colder by the minute. She tried to keep from shivering too badly, since Casey was still lost in contemplation. The wind swirled down through the cemetery and cut right through her. Finally, she knelt and picked up the lantern again, holding her long brown hair back from the flame. Gently threading her arm through his, she turned to go. Casey let her lead the way.
“They brought in your horses,” Julianna mentioned. “They’re in the corral and the tack is in the barn.”
“Appreciated,” he said, in an automatic voice. But he didn’t hear what she said.
Casey wondered what happened to everyone: LG, Steve, Rufe, Lee, Davis, Gyp, Emmanuel. He couldn’t ride well enough to find out. He considered getting on that stagecoach and heading up to Ward with the deputy. Casey didn’t know what to think anymore. He just knew he needed to lay up somewhere and heal.
Chapter 49
Lefthand Canyon
Specter’s white face was bright in the moonlight. LG patted his neck. The moon was about to disappear behind that dark cloudbank rolling in. He figured he better get his coat on and grab a bite while he still had some light.
“Easy, boy.”
The horse was breathing heavily. Behind the saddle, LG’s coat was tied in place. He unrolled it and shook it out. Pine needles sprinkled on the ground as he did. This was the first chance he took to stop since Granger had surprised him. Or since he had surprised Granger.
LG knew he better not stay in one place for too long. Specter had surprised him by trotting confidently down the stage road in the moonlight. Now that they were losing the moon, LG wondered how the young horse would do in the pitch black. He would find out soon enough.
Ever since leaving the stagecoach behind, LG had been on the move. The stage road itself was the most direct path out of the chaos, and he had kept the black horse running hard for a couple miles. Then LG slowed down, alternating between a walk and a trot. He wanted to put distance between himself and that stagecoach without baking his horse. He didn’t want to be caught afoot if they were riding after him.
Nothing but staying alive had mattered for the last few hours. Looking back up the dark road, LG listened. Hearing nothing, he slid onto the ground. He landed in a wheel rut and nearly twisted his ankle.
“I belong in a saddle,” he told Specter. “That’s why, right there.”
Rooting around in the saddlebag, LG found a canteen and some salted pork. When he uncapped the canteen, he noticed the top was rimed with ice crystals. He shook the canteen a few times to clear it up. The water was very cold, but it helped. His throat was dry and sore.
LG had just wanted to get around the coach and chat with the drivers. How was he supposed to know it was a robbery and not a busted axle?
He took his gloves off and ran his cold hand through Specter’s thick winter hide.
“Lord, help the boys.”
LG realized Specter needed a drink, too. The canteen could use a refill anyhow. Lefthand Creek was just off the road, bubbling by. The ravine had thinned out considerably and he could easily walk down to the riverbank at this point. He started leading Specter down by the bridle.
Then he heard the hoofbeats.
Chapter 50
Til Blancett noticed one of his cows was loose on the road.
He almost rode right past the yearling, when he heard the swish of a tail. Polangus were hard to see in the middle of the night like this, but Til caught the scent of cowhide and manure. Whoever was riding drag was about to get their pay docked. Til needed every head to make this next sale count.
The stage road was the simplest route to the big city of Denver from Beaver Creek. Til had ridden it many times. He knew Spring Gulch came out just up ahead. He knew where he was. The temperature was falling though. He could hear the trees starting to sway. Til wished he had the moon or stars to see by — but they were gone now, too.
Several more cows were lying up against the embankment. He knew this because his horse shied away, trying to keep from stepping on them. Til could easily smell more manure the further he walked. He suddenly realized there were dozens of cattle bedded down all along the road. He could feel their presence.
“What in tarnation?” he muttered.
Til had bought a lantern in Ward, figuring it might come in handy with all this night riding. He got it out, lit it, and held it up high.
Cattle were everywhere.
He rode past Spring Gulch, since there were more cows up ahead. He went around the granite outcropping, which was just a big black tower at this time of night, looming over the road on his left.
Til slid off Bit Ear, so he could kneel down and study the road.
In several places, Til saw blood soaked into the dirt. It was obvious the cattle had been driven to this point but not a step further…like they hit a wall. It was odd to see so many hoofprints come to a sudden stopping point on an open road.
“Something happened — right here.”
He saw wagon wheel tracks, hoofprints both shod and unshod, and a lot of boot tracks.
Leading his horse on foot, Til walked back to where Spring Gulch tied into Lefthand Canyon. He moved into the forest and held the lantern high. There were more cattle bedded down all around him, dotted throughout the underbrush. Their eyes shined like coins.
Chapter 51
Preacher’s Glen
“I heet that cocinero!”
“If you heet him, then why’d he jump right back up like a jackrabbit?”
Ned was speaking to Caverango. Of course, now they knew his name wasn’t really Ned. It was Charley Crouse. Charley didn’t care though. It was better the Mexicans knew who he was. They seemed to be more compliant, especially after hearing what Bill had said about Speck William’s guts.
“Lo siento, señor Crouse.”
Caverango was nervous. Granger hated Mexicans — that was no secret. But Granger was just an impulsive fool. What if Charley Crouse hated Mexicans, as well? The man seemed impulsive, perhaps worse than Granger. But less of a fool. More cold than fool. Caverango wondered if he really did eviscerate some poor black man up in Brown’s Park? For no good reason beyond a drunken rage? If so, it was possible Charley’s bigotry ran the color spectrum. And that was what made Caverango nervous.
“I keel him. Ahora.”
It did not help his confidence that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his own face. Perhaps Charley Crouse would choose the cover of darkness and the circumstance of an unkilled camp cookie as excuse to disembowel someone colored nearby. Someone colored — such as himself. Caverango decided the best thing would be to put some distance between himself and Charley Crouse.
“Perdon,” he whispered and tip-toed off.
He heard Charley chuckle behind him, somewhere in the darkness. Caverango paused to listen — he thought he heard a jagged knife being swished out of a sheathe. He began moving quicker to keep from being gutted like the Speckled Nigger. He ex
tended both hands out and patted around in the darkness.
Tree trunk.
Tree trunk.
Brush.
Pine branch.
The further he got, the more relaxed Caverango became. Perhaps he would not get jabbed after all. He lamented silently for poor Poqito. Poqito was still back there, standing with Charley. Unless he reached a similar conclusion and had the good sense to sneak off in the night. Caverango wondered about it. Maybe Poqito had reached a similar conclusion. He sure hoped so. If they both got away tonight, they could break off from this gang. After all, there was a posse on their trail — and the posse was mainly looking for Bill and Vincent. They probably weren’t even aware that Caverango and Poqito were riding with the gang. The two of them might even ride openly in the daylight, passing themselves off as regular vaqueros looking for work.
Between the tree trunks, Caverango spotted the soft orange glow of the campfire. He smelled the burning wood before he saw it. These gringos must not be anticipating any danger, he thought, or they would not have lit a fire. Caverango would never have lit a fire if his compañeros had just been bushwhacked and shot down. He would have ridden far away at once.
A gun went off and Caverango dropped to his knees. The rapport was loud. He held his breath. It had come from back behind him, where Charley and Poqito were — not from one of the caballeros up ahead. It came from behind. Close behind. He could smell the gunpowder.
Shuffling around, Caverango squinted into the darkness hoping to see something. He wondered if Charley had gone ahead and shot Poqito after all. The man always seemed to be sipping on corn whiskey. He was probably drunk right now. Poor Poqito.
Caverango heard a twig snap and footsteps rushing his way. Before he knew it, somebody ran right into him and they both went down together.
“Es me! Es me!” Caverango whispered tensely.
He could smell the familiar odor of corn whiskey. It was Charley Crouse.
“I figured so,” Charley whispered back. His voice was nonchalant, but in that initial moment of uncertainty his hands had sought out Caverango’s throat. He relaxed his grip and let Caverango breathe again.