Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

by Mark Mitten

  Til caught sight of several buckaroos saddling up their horses. It was an easy chore to load stock — after all, the animals were already in the holding pens. The only thing left to do was flush them up the loading chute.

  Glancing up towards the depot platform, Til noticed the passenger cars were opening up. People began to pour out and their voices carried loudly. Backing the drafts from the water tank, he maneuvered the carryall around to an open grassy area. He set the brake and wrapped the reins around the handle.

  “Be good,” Til told the lead horse, whose name was Heavy.

  Heavy turned to look over Til’s shoulder at all the activity — and nearly knocked Til down with his draft-sized horse head. Til wiped the snot off his shoulder with a kerchief.

  “Now I got horse slobber on my good shirt.”

  Making his way across the green grass and daisies, Til went up the steps and stood on the wide platform. He looked around at all the people — and there she was.

  “Laura,” Til said with a smile. “You are a sight.”

  Laura Blancett stood tall in a straight canvas-colored skirt and a wide low hat which shaded her face. Her hair was long and blonde, glimmering in the sunlight. She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed.

  “Missed you, honey!” she said happily.

  Til found it was suddenly hard to speak. He cleared his throat.

  “You look lovely.”

  She smiled and pressed her palm to his clean-shaven cheek. She pinched the end of his mustache. It was longer than the last time she had seen him. It made him look older.

  “Where’s the boy?” Til managed to say.

  “I sent Walker for the luggage.”

  They held each other tightly for a long minute. The other passengers milled around them.

  “Two years, Til. That’s such a long time,” Laura said, seriously. “Any longer would be the ruination of me.”

  “You’re my sweetheart, Laura. That’s over now. Built us a home.”

  Their son came up just then. He was ten years old and already looked a lot like his father — although he was blonde like his mother.

  “Poppa!” Walker shouted and wrapped his arms around Til’s waist. “The whole train stopped so the ladies could pick wildflowers. I could barely stand such procrastination. I told the conductor how unreasonable it was. But he just ignored me, so we sat and sat.”

  Til grinned and put his hand on Walker’s head. The boy may have my eyes, he thought. But he has the vocabulary and temperament of his mother.

  “We won’t stop for no wildflowers,” Til assured him.

  Chapter 5

  Hay Ranch

  Chili con carne, mashed potatoes cooked with onions, and warm buttermilk biscuits. Emmanuel laid it all out on Rufe’s new hand-built kitchen table.

  He attempted to do it with a mannered grace, or so he hoped. Emmanuel was keenly aware of Mrs. Blancett. A female presence was a rare phenomenon in a working cattle outfit, and cow crews were all he had known for many years.

  Both Rufe and Steve also showed signs of critical self-awareness. Usually quite talkative, the brothers’ conversation was reduced to baleful politeness. Fearful of faux pas, the cowhands busied themselves with the task at hand: eating.

  Walker Blancett seemed fascinated by their clothes and gear. The Colt .45 held special appeal in his eyes. He wondered how he could get to hold one. He knew his mother would be uncompromising in her disapproval if he outright asked. Perhaps a more subtle ploy would work.

  “Poppa, after supper may I see the stable?”

  “Sure. Just a corral.”

  “Can Mr. McGonkin show it to me?”

  Rufe and Steve looked up from their plates. First at little Walker…then at each other. Rufe pointed at Steve as if to ask, you or me?

  Laura looked from the cowhands to her son.

  “Perhaps. If you address Mr. McGonkin directly, he might acquiesce. Just do not be a burden or linger out there…they have their own business to attend.”

  Rufe forked a fat glob of mashed potatoes into his mouth. Steve saw it go in and realized his brother did not intend to reply.

  “Sure, kid,” Steve said.

  Til poured a fresh glass of milk from a silver pitcher. He called into the kitchen:

  “Emmanuel, come and join us. Sit down and have a plate.”

  Stepping out with a brand new ceramic coffee pot, Emmanuel looked uneasy about it but went ahead and sat down at the table.

  “Til,” Laura asked. “Catch me up on the B-Cross, since your last letter.”

  He sipped his milk and dabbed his mustache with a cloth napkin. He had bought cloth napkins, a cloth table cover, and all new dinnerware. Til wanted everything to be nice for his wife.

  “Well. After the hassle in Lefthand, I gathered up as much of the outfit as was left. We swung a wide loop and brought in all the strays we could find. Drove ‘em up here and bought this parcel of land.”

  Noticing that his young son was paying close attention to everything he said, Til nodded at the men around the table.

  “They all ride for the brand. You can learn from these boys, Walker.”

  Walker nodded thoughtfully. But his thoughts were mainly about Colt .45′s.

  “Anyhow. I set upon to think this through,” Til went on. “I come to realize, with the big Die-Up this last winter, the cattle industry is in for a change. Most everyone I been talking to of late has seen this as a passing hardship. But it’s more than that. It’s all changing.”

  “In what way?” Laura asked.

  Emmanuel quietly began warming their mugs with fresh coffee. He had never seen the inside of a schoolhouse, but Mrs. Blancett seemed like an educated woman. She had a way of talking that made him self-conscious about his own choppy trail language.

  “Past few years, population out here’s been a jo-fired explosion. Dakota’s nearly half a million folk now. Montana’s all tripled up. Barbed wire is everywhere. And Colorado’s headed down the same trail.”

  “The three G’s,” Rufe said suddenly.

  Laura and Til looked over at him in surprise.

  Rufe turned beet red.

  “I won’t bite, Rufe,” Laura said kindly.

  “Conversate, McGonkin,” Til told him. He blew softly across the surface of his coffee and took an extremely careful sip — this was still Emmanuel’s coffee, even if they were sitting around a dining table.

  Rufe tried to remember what he was going to say. His mind went blank, and he realized his palms were sweaty.

  “Biscuits are good,” Steve mentioned to Emmanuel.

  The cook gave him an overacted nod of approval. Emmanuel did not want to say anything embarrassing, so he decided to speak as little as possible.

  “The three G’s,” Rufe said again. “God, government, and grangers.”

  Laura listened patiently and smiled again pleasantly to draw out whatever he was thinking. She knew all these men were uncomfortable around her. That was obvious the moment she met them. She realized they were not used to interacting with the female gender. Well, she intended to fix that. Engaging them in table talk was as good a way as any.

  “Cowboyin’s not the same now,” Rufe continued. “Old days are over.”

  Til stepped in. Rufe’s point was one thing, but his ability to communicate it in finer company was another.

  “The days of big round-ups, big cattle drives and big herds — it can’t go on like that no more.”

  “Where does that leave us?” Laura asked him. “People still buy beef. If the population is on the rise, it would seem the demand for beef would increase as well.”

  “It is, but it’s that same population what’s the problem. Homesteads, towns, fences. No more free range means no more long drives. That’s where cattle get fattened up, is on the graze.”

  Laura considered what he was saying for a moment. She scraped her spoon slowly along the bottom of her chili bowl.

  “So you think the money is in hay?”

 
; “Yes, partly. People fence in their stock, the grass gets et up. They will need hay. I also plan on raising small herds here, and do it right. Focus on the quality of the stock. There’s one man in the Park, Sam Hartsel, who’s been experimenting with that. I aim to do the same.”

  “We need ownership of the land, water rights,” Laura said, thinking out loud. “And fencing. And a lot more pure-blood stock.”

  Til sat back and looked at her. He smiled softly. She was certainly a lovely woman, and sharp as a tack. Even though the cattle drive was a failure — it made him rethink things. And now here he was, sitting at his own supper table, sharing a meal with his wife and son. If things had gone on fine, Til would be sitting on a rock in Wyoming at that very moment, eating out of a can.

  “I’ll need a desk,” she mentioned. “A place to keep the ledger, tallies, bills of sale.”

  Til looked over at Rufe, who was watching the conversation’s flow as if he were sitting on a riverbank.

  “Manage that, Rufe?”

  “I can build a desk,” Rufe said and patted the tabletop. “I can do that. You bet.”

  Chapter 6

  IM Ranch

  Black Mountain

  South Park

  “You’re looking for work?” Edson Mulock said suspiciously.

  “Yessir,” Charley Crouse replied with a starchy smile suitable for framing. “Me and this vaquero here. Just riding the grub line.”

  Edson looked over at his brother Peter. Peter Mulock looked back blankly. Both of them just sat their horses, not saying much. Charley realized this might be a hard sell.

  “We been punchers at the King Ranch. Down Tejas way. Corpus. Heard of it?”

  “Everybody heard of it,” Edson told him, sharply. “What brought you way up here then?”

  “Captain died a couple years back, ain’t been the same since,” Charley explained. He let the starchy smile fall into a look of pensive reverence.

  Caverango was amazed at Charley’s ability to pretend. Looking at him now, even Caverango wondered if what he was saying was the bona fide truth. And he knew it was a flat-out lie. But Charley pointed at him and went on with his tale.

  “This hombre is one of the Kikeños: King’s people. A top hand, staring you right in the face. Don’t pass this ol’ boy up.”

  What a story. Caverango wondered if Charley sat around thinking these things up beforehand. Surely he did. Otherwise he must be pulling it out of his hat. And who could pull something like that out of their hat? Caverango had never worked at the King Ranch, though he heard there were local Mexicans who did — locals who admired Richard King and rode for him out of loyalty. Caverango thought about Bill. And Charley. He wished he had someone worth riding for out of loyalty. As it was, Caverango wished he could put some distance between himself and Charley Crouse. The gringo was unpredictable and a little out of his mind. It left Caverango feeling that one day, he just might wake up with his own guts cut out and spilled on the ground.

  Edson thoughtfully looked them over. He spat a stream of chewing tobacco on the ground. After a long moment of consideration, he relented.

  “Well, come on then.”

  He turned his bay around and led the way. Charley and Caverango followed, and Peter Mulock came along behind. Edson led them along a well-used path that pointed straight across the open meadows at Black Mountain.

  As they got closer, Caverango spotted the ranch buildings. Smoke trickled out of a chimney from a large frame house. Just behind it, the pine-covered slopes of Black Mountain swept up. It was a solitary mountain, surrounded by a good stretch of high prairie on all sides.

  All morning long, Caverango watched big puffy clouds with dark flat bottoms collect in the sky. He had a fear of a being struck dead by lightning. Whenever clouds like that started building, he made it a point to get indoors — or at least off his horse. Especially when he was out in an open area, like they were now. The air was getting cool and a gusty breeze was picking up. Caverango hoped they would make it to the ranch before he got struck by lightning. The tall mountain grass began waving in the wind. A sure sign of a storm.

  “That’s the Big House,” Peter mentioned.

  The Big House was the headquarters for the IM. Edson took them right into the corrals where they dismounted and turned their horses loose. The wind was really whipping up now. It was obviously going to rain at any moment.

  “Tack room’s over there,” Edson shouted above the wind.

  They grabbed their saddles and hustled towards it. Cold raindrops started slapping at their hat brims. The tack room was a clutter of saddles and bridles and other things. They dumped their gear off and went back out into the rain.

  “Father’s inside,” Peter said ominously, pointing to the Big House.

  The sky was black now and the rain was coming down hard. Caverango was scared how quickly it got dark. He wanted to get where it was safe from lightning. Breaking decorum, he ran ahead of the Mulock brothers and Charley Crouse to get under the porch roof as fast as he could. If it lightninged, he didn’t want to be the one to get blasted.

  Caverango stood there panting as he waited for the others to catch up. Under the veranda he felt safe. He still wished he was as far from Charley Crouse as possible. Then he could truly feel safe.

  True to its name, the ranch house was big. The sideboards were painted white and the trim was forest green. The roof was peaked in the middle. Beneath the peak, the whole wall was nothing but glass. The windows stretched from the floor all the way up to the ceiling. Whoever built this place spent a lot on those pricey windows. Charley figured that meant the IM was well off. Perhaps there was something worth stealing here.

  The gold they got back in Kinsey City was still buried in that mineshaft up on the Divide. Charley was not sure who rode off with the gold dust and cash from Lefthand Canyon…he just knew it wasn’t him. And getting shot at by a bunch of cowpokes in Spring Gulch was enough to keep him from going back to check. Which meant he was broke. Considering the fancy windows, the IM might be worth raiding. When the time was right.

  Edson Mulock walked up to the front door and wiped his boots off.

  “Come on in.”

  He opened the door and they all went inside. The foyer was gloomy. With the sky as dark as it was, the natural light did no good. Edson considered lighting one of the lanterns. But that would mean using kerosene during the day, which might be viewed as a waste by his father. His father hated wastefulness. He decided not to light one.

  Thunder rumbled. They heard bootsteps echoing across the wood floor, and the patriarch of the Mulock clan came into the room. He walked right up to Edson with a deep frown.

  “New hands?”

  “Yes, pa,” Edson said. He nodded toward Charley and Caverango.

  “Say they’re off the King Ranch.”

  Edson turned to Charley.

  “This here is Mr. Mulock. Owner and operator of the IM.”

  Mr. Mulock stood a few inches shorter than Charley, graying at the temples. But he looked like a hard character. Charley stuck with his story.

  “Just a couple of punchers,” Charley explained.

  Mulock began going through his overcoat, absently patting through the pockets one by one. He scowled at the floor thoughtfully. He finally found a cigar stub and examined it.

  “Peter, fetch me some fire water.”

  Peter hustled off through an open doorway, disappearing into the shadows. Mr. Mulock suddenly raised his eyes and locked onto Charley. His gaze was direct.

  “So you’re riding the chuck line,” Mulock said. His voice was brusque, no-nonsense. “Who’s running the King now?”

  “His lady,” Charley told him quietly. “The Missus.”

  Peter came back into the room carrying a tin cup. Filing into the room behind him, a row of solemn cowboys also came in — the only noise they made was the tinkle of their jingle-bobs. They fanned out. Caverango wished he had stayed out in the lightning. He wished he could leave right then a
nd take his chances. Leave both Charley and his pretend stories far behind.

  Mulock raised the cup and took a long sip. His gray eyes hovered over the rim, studying the two of them.

  In one quick movement, he rang the tin cup across Charley’s temple.

  Crumpling against the door, Charley’s knees drooped, but he managed to keep his footing. There was whiskey all over his face and shirt, and a raw red rash on his temple.

  Mulock’s cowboys stood around them, unmoving. They did not speak, flinch or blink. The ranch boss flicked his cigar stub across the room. It rolled beneath a bench and disappeared.

  Outside the sky flashed brightly and the dim room was washed out for one silent moment. After a couple seconds the thunder caught up, with a rumble boom. Charley leaned heavily against the door for balance, and slowly straightened up — his hand pressed to his skull.

  “Captain Richard King died two years ago. It went to Henrietta, yes,” Mulock affirmed. Then he added: “But she don’t run shit.”

  He held the tin cup loosely, twirling it by the handle. Caverango stood quietly, with his eyes fixed on the bench where the cigar stub rolled.

  “Kleberg’s running the whole jig,” Mulock went on, his voice thick with derision. “Has been.”

  Hail began dinging off the rooftop. Slowly at first — then it really started coming down hard. Through the front window, all they could see was the gray haze of hail pellets bouncing off the ground.

  Chapter 7

  A hunched figure emerged from the hail with his arms over his head. He raced right up the veranda stairs. Edson grabbed Caverango by the arm and yanked him out of the way. The door banged open and the roar of falling hail became extremely loud. It was Parker Mulock. He took off his hat, which was damp and bent, and held his head. Parker had a headache from being pounded on the skull by hail.

  “Parker?” Mr. Mulock said in surprise. “Why aren’t you in Cañon City?”