Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (12 page)

“How was your stay in Grand Lake?” Ned asked as they walked.

“Didn't stay long enough to really form an opinion.”

“I led that sheriff quite far afield,” Ned told him.

“No, you didn't — that's why we're in this mess.”

Ned grinned and slapped Bill on the shoulder.

“Aw, you did fine. Nothing a little gut-shot sheriff won't fix. That ol' boy's walking with
Santa Muerta
by now.”
 

They took their time crossing the rocks. As they got closer to the cabin, the door opened and they could see Vincent outlined in the doorway. The fire was crackling in the hearth directly behind him. It looked inviting.

“Bill?”

“We're coming.”

“Hold up,” Vincent said.

He held up a butcher's knife. It caught the moonlight when he angled it around. Bill looked at it thoughtfully.

“Mark it,” he said.

Vincent made his way downhill, taking the butcher's knife. He walked towards a sad looking tree just below the mine. It was stunted — stripped bare by the exposure on the ridge. He jabbed the knife blade deep into the bark. It went in solidly. Stepping back Vincent observed his work. The knife's handle pointed directly uphill where the mine entrance was located. Or used to be.

Walking slowly and counting his steps, Vincent hiked straight up to the mine.

“Fifty paces,” he called over to Bill.

The wind was clearing the sky, blowing all the clouds toward the eastern plains. The stars were bright as could be. Bill turned to Ned.

“I don't know about you, but I want a beer.”

They went inside the cabin. Bill was ready to relax. Tomorrow was going to be another long day on horseback and he was pretty washed out. The past few days had been nonstop. At least the two miners they killed had stocked the cabin. Cans of food lined one shelf and bottles of beer lined another.

Vincent came back in. A minute later the others began filing through the doorway. Will was the last one to come through — but Granger gave him the lantern and pointed him right back outside.

“Last one in the door has to check them horses.”

“Aw damn,” Will said. “Last
again
.”

But Granger had already closed the door.

 

Chapter 20

Spring Gulch

 

Rufe turned up his collar. After a couple hoofbeats, it curled slowly back down into its original place. Rufe turned it back up again. That collar was a nuisance. Once they got somewhere he could buy one, he aimed to pick up a new coat.

“Hope cookie be setting up that chuckwagon.”

Rufe looked back at his brother. Steve just shook his head hopelessly and shivered. The crew had been on trail since they ran the tally. It had to be three in the AM by now — and the coldest part of the night. The McGonkin brothers were both exhausted and chilled to the bone. So were the cows.

“Can't be much further,” Steve told him. “Cattle ain't in no shape to walk the night away.”

“Hey watch this,” he added.

Steve steered his horse right into the cow line and drew up. Normally, cattle would stop if a horse blocked their way. But instead of stopping, the cattle plodded slowly around the horse, mindlessly moving on into the dark. Steve removed his hat and waved it at them. But the cattle showed no interest in his hat either.

“How 'bout that,” Rufe frowned. “So ding dang chilly, ain't paying no mind to a cowhorse.”

The silver moonlight cast clear-cut shadows on the powdery ground. Rufe wasn't sure how much further they had to go to get to Preacher's Glen, like Til told them. Spring Gulch seemed to stretch on forever. There were all kinds of trees everywhere. Conifer, pine, spruce. He could have sworn they passed the same beaver pond about three times, but his older brother disagreed.

Steve turned his horse around again and kept moving with the herd. The Polangus were black as it was, and hard to see at night. At least they had the moon.

Rufe yawned. Steve saw it and yawned himself.

“Can't wait for the bedroll,” Rufe mumbled. “Cows, cows. Movin' so durned slow.”

Hunching forward, Steve squinted his eyes. It was an effort. He pointed two gloved fingers up ahead.

“Now, Rufie…see it?”

Rufe looked up from under his hat, breath hanging in the air. Lying beneath the wingspan of a big blue spruce was a dead steer.

“Ain't Polangus,” Rufe noted. “Or Longhorn.”

“Durham,” Steve said. “But not one of ours. I'll check the brand.”

He trotted his horse up to the carcass. Sliding out of the saddle, Steve knelt and examined it. There was hardly any snow under the big tree.

“Looks like one of Sprague's. From last fall, I bet.”

One side was torn open right in its belly.

“Cat did this,” Rufe said and put his hand on his .45. He looked around warily.

“If that's last year's kill, ain't nothin' to worry,” Steve told his brother.

Rufe rode up close and looked down at the dead animal. It was dried out and covered in needles and cones. The skin was just a stiff layer of canvas. The eyes were gone, the legs angled out — it looked deflated, dried out and long since dead.

Sliding off his horse, Rufe unhooped his rope from the horn. He chuckled.

“Let's take a better look at this thing.”

Kneeling down, Rufe tied a loop around the carcass's legs. Uncoiling the rope, he stretched it out and dallied the other end around his saddle horn.

Steve shook his head in a big-brotherly fashion. Rufe was always looking for something to liven up a dull ride. When they used to work up in Wyoming, Rufe liked to ride down wolves. Wolves were big pests and could set off a stampede. The range boss had put them on wolf patrol, but shooting them wasn't sporting enough. Rufe liked to ride them down and rope them, drag them to death. That was a pretty common thing. Most of the cowhands up there did the same thing.

Steve got his own rope out and tied it off around the steer's horns. They both remounted and began backing their horses in opposite directions.

The ropes unwound, the slack kinked out and the rope got tight. They dragged the carcass out from under the evergreen. It scraped across the cold ground.

“Here, now,” Rufe shouted. “Walk way back!”

Steve shrugged and began backing his horse. His horse obeyed but clearly did not like it. He was a reliable trail horse though and did like he was asked — although Steve had to keep close control of the reins to make it happen. Rufe was doing the same. The ropes pulled taut and the stiff carcass lifted slowly off the ground, suspended between the two horses.

Rufe laughed out loud.

“Well how about that!” he said. “Floatin' beeve.”

“Hey now, a ghost steer!” Steve said. “Wish Ira could see this. Eyes be big as saucers…he'd ride straight for Tejas!”

Ira had some easy fears to play on. That
would
be fun. Rufe hoped Ira would ride back and see this! He leaned over his horse's withers, grabbed the rope and began tugging at it. He got the carcass swaying.

“Lookie here, Steve!” he yelled. “Ghosty beeve, a-floatin' for blood! Wants him some Ira!”

Steve's horse decided this was too much. He hopped and capered about. As soon as he did, the rope went slack and the steer hit the ground. Inside the canvas shell, its dry bones rattled loudly with the impact.

The cattle erupted. There was no longer a cowline. It was now a rush of Polangus and Durham racing full out — kicking up clods of snow, mush and dirt.

 

Chapter 21

Mining Camp

Continental Divide

 

A gun went off outside.

The sound was almost obscured by the high winds, but instantly Bill and Ned dove out of their chairs and flattened themselves on the floor. Everyone else froze and listened, trying to determine if that really was gunfire they just heard.

Vincent and Lem were sitting at the table, cards in hand. Seeing Bill and Ned drop to the floor, Vincent realized that not only
did
a gun go off, but it might have been aimed at the cabin where they were all playing cards and drinking bottled beer. And there was a window not six feet away from where he sat. I've already been shot once this week, he thought, slapped his cards on the tabletop and slid out of his chair. He scooted away from the window on his knees.

Lem watched him go. He was still seated, with his cards fanned out. The wind had been howling like a banshee ever since the sun went down. The cabin walls shook with every swell. It could have been rock fall. Or a tree blowing over. Besides, it was cold out there. Bitterly cold. Who would be out there in this bitterly cold wind, Lem wondered. And if they were, why couldn't they wait until the sun came up before they started shooting?

Several moments passed. Maybe it was a tree or rock after all. Lem reached over and peeked at Vincent's hand.

Then another gunshot went off, louder than the first. A bullet hit the front of the cabin, but it didn't make it all the way through the plank wall.

Everyone scrambled. Lem jumped up and grabbed his shotgun, disappearing into the darkest corner of the room. Bill got to his hands, and shuffled over to the wall. He drew his .45 and began checking it over.

“Stay quiet!” he hissed.

Firelight flickered. No one spoke. Poqito and Caverango stood like statues on both sides of the hearth.

“Cover that door,” Bill said, nodding to them. The two Mexicans brought their rifles up, ready. Bill was sure it was the deputy from Grand Lake. He knew they should not have shot anybody in that town — least of all the sheriff. When he first broke out of the courthouse cell, he was adamant about getting out of town without a killing. But then the sheriff walked in on them. It was a lung shot. The man probably died. Vincent had been impertinent, shooting him right in the chest. And Bill was still upset because his hearing was dull in one ear now. Vincent should have just winged the man in the leg or shoulder, or choked him till he passed out.

Embers popped onto the floor, sizzling — but no one moved to stomp on them. The window in the front wall might as well have been painted black. It was too dark to see through the glass and no one wanted to risk being shot in the head. Ned crawled over and blew out the lantern on the table. He hesitated thoughtfully, staring at it.

“Hey Bill?” Ned whispered. “Will is still out there.”

Granger, bending low, hustled over to the door and grabbed the handle. He glanced over at Bill, as if for approval. Bill arched his eyebrows with interest. He was always interested in what Granger would do next. Slowly, gingerly, Granger pulled the door open — just a sliver.

He waited.

Nothing happened.

He put an eye to the crack and looked out into the darkness.

Then the door banged open — right into Granger's face. He was knocked off his feet and rolled sideways till he hit the table. The lantern slid off and shattered on the floor, spraying kerosene everywhere. Ned was glad he just blew it out or this little shack would be on fire before they could blink twice.

Will Wyllis stood in the doorway. He was shaking visibly. His stomach was shiny, wet with blood.

As soon as he saw the guns and rifles pointed at him, Will raised his hands and opened his mouth to speak. But instead of speaking, his head snapped forward and a spray of dark blood flipped up from the backside.

Will took a step forward and stopped unsteadily, wavering on his feet. His eyes went wide and lost their focus. His legs gave way and he fell back out the door. All they could see were the bottoms of his boots flickering in the firelight.

Two more gunshots went off. Splinters exploded off the doorjamb. Granger knew he was in a bad place, right there in plain view. Scrambling to his hands and knees, he scurried wildly from the open entrance. Granger kneed his way frantically past Bill and huddled beneath the window. He put a finger into his mouth. There was a floppy tooth, swaying like a hinge. Son of a bitch, he thought.

“Close that door! Close that door!” Bill yelled.

Lem popped out of his dark corner, ran over and kicked it shut.

The window shattered. Granger threw his arms up over his head. Thick shards of glass rained down.

Poqito and Caverango grabbed onto the twisted tree trunk in the hearth and began pulling it out. Smoke buckled up into the room, and the fire fluttered. As they tugged it out, Poqito bumped into the table and lost his grip. Caverango couldn't hold onto it alone, and the trunk landed hard on the floor. Embers scattered everywhere. There was a round wool rug under the table and several big pieces landed on it, smoldering.

Ned watched in disbelief.

“What the hell are you two doing?”

“
Killing el fuego!”
Caverango explained hysterically. “
Están mirando
!
En la luz!”
 

“Forget the fire! You're gonna get us smoked and burnt out!”

Ned had to yell to be heard over the wind and the gunfire.

Gray clouds churned out of the smoldering wood even as he spoke. The smoke rolled right up to the roof and billowed around. They all began to cough. Poqito started stomping at the embers, especially the ones that had fallen on the wool rug under the table. One of the glowing embers got kicked instead of stomped, and skittered right into the kerosene. It ignited and the floor lit right up.

Vincent stuck his sixgun through the broken window and fired off several shots.

“Lem! Blast out that back wall,” Bill shouted.

Lem's dark corner was no longer dark. The big fire in the center of the room cast too much light. But Lem tipped his shotgun towards the back wall. He discharged the first barrel — it was loud. The room shook. But it worked. There was a platter-sized hole in the planks.

“Do it again!” Bill yelled.