Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (23 page)

The sun was hidden. There was a chill in the air, but it was not cold enough to keep the flies from coming out. Several black flies zipped into the stagecoach and buzzed around the dead men's eyes.

“Thought to bring these two men up here,” Griff told Hugh. “We're aiming to pack that other one out with us — hope there's an undertaker about.”

“Talk to Coke. He's English,” Hugh told him. “Fella with the mustache.”

“Mustache?” Griff asked skeptically. Everywhere he looked he saw men with mustaches.

“You'll know him when you see it. Dern near touches his titties.”

The rest of the posse rode into town at that moment. Griff saw them come into view, riding up the hill. This little mining town would be a good place to rest up, he thought — start back home in the morning. Their horses were worn and they all looked worn out themselves. Roy Caldwell drove his little buckboard just behind the group of riders…one hand busy with the reins, the other hand resting on the pickle jar.

 

 

 

 

Part 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHARACTERS

PART 2  

The IM Ranch:

Mr. Mulock – ranch owner, family patriarch; also owns the Cañon City Bank

Parker Mulock – eldest son

Edson Mulock – middle son

Peter Mulock – youngest son

Augustus Gaumer – cousin to Mr. Mulock, and cashier at the Cañon City Bank

 

Citizens of Leadville:

Horace “Haw” Tabor – affluent owner of The Tabor Opera House, Matchless Mine

Elizabeth “Baby Doe” Tabor – Horace's eccentric wife and socialite

Big Ed Burns – local crime boss

Soapy Smith – Denver's biggest confidence man & racketeer, with crime ties to Leadville

George Fryer – successful miner

JJ Brown – successful miner

Maggie Brown – JJ's wife and rising socialite

Ben Loeb – local entrepreneur of baser things

 

Notable citizens of South Park & surrounding area:

Laura Blancett (Til's wife)

Walker Blancett (Til & L aura's son)

Sam Hartsel – owner of the Hartsel Ranch

Cassius – owns & oversees the Whale Mine

Chubb Newitt – runs the general store in Garo

Frank Stevens – owns Stevens Saloon

EP Arthur – Englishman, ranch owner

 

The XIT Ranch (Texas):

Sam Singer – runs “Singer's Store, Merchandise”

Colonel AG Boyce – new ranch manager

AL Matlock – lawyer hired by the Chicago Syndicate to clean up corruption at the XIT

George Findlay – young Scot, working for Matlock

BH “Barbeque” Campbell – prior ranch manager

Billy Ney – “the Xmas hell variety”

Arizona Johnny – “the Xmas hell variety”

Frank Yearwood

Rollin Larrabee – bookkeeper

 
 

Chapter 1

Hall's Ranch

Lyons

Colorado

 

The wood sizzled and then popped. An orange cinder arced through the air and landed right in Granger's lap. He immediately jumped up and began slapping around at his pants. The cinder fell off and dropped near his feet. It looked like a dying firefly. Granger stomped it.

“Damn near burnt me,” he muttered. “See that?”

Vincent and Bill were sitting on the ground, leaning back against the apple trees. The whole grove smelled like apples. Of course they saw the whole thing. But they didn't really care. To them, Granger was a circus clown who had long since overstayed his welcome. His nasally voice and tooth-whistle talk was really getting under Vincent's skin. Even Bill was tired of Granger. Bill always considered himself removed from the petty irritations of the lawless lifestyle. But after a full month dodging around in the backcountry with no one to talk to but these two, it was taking its toll.

Staying off trail was a necessary evil. After so much killing and robbing, Bill knew they had to lay low. He didn't let them ride into any town they came across. Not even for a quick meal at a local inn. Things were too hot. Plus Vincent had fouled himself up when his horse tripped. Even after weeks had passed, the man was still in a great deal of pain. What if some local lawman realized who they were? Vincent was dead weight. Granger was unpredictable. So Bill thought the best thing was to simply wait it out. Besides, he had instructed the rest of the gang to meet up at these apple orchards if things went wrong. And things had.

Bill pulled at a thin chain dangling from his vest. He took out his new silver pocketwatch. It was from the stage driver. After Bill shot him, he went through his clothes. It was a nice timepiece, even engraved:
John Frederick Hughes, from Helena your loving wife: Absence from those we love is self from self.
And sitting here under the apple trees, it was mighty useful. He could check the minutes and see exactly how much time passed between Granger's rants and outbursts.
 

“There was a time when I'd bellow at your fool ways,” Vincent complained. “Now it's just deflating when you flap your maw.”

He glanced over to Bill.

“How long?”

“Twenty whole minutes.”

“Twenty whole minutes till what?” Granger asked them.

Vincent sighed.

“Go boil your shirt,” he told Granger.

An owl hooted. It was in the tree up above the fire. Vincent could see it. It was just a small owl. He wished it was a big owl — a big owl that would swoop down and pluck out Granger's eyes. Or carry him away into the sky. But of course, that was a wistful thought. There were no owls in all of creation big enough to carry Granger away. Vincent shifted. Leaning against apple trees for the past week was as uncomfortable now as it was then. Especially since his whole chest ached. He wished he had a nice bed to sleep in somewhere. Really, it was insensitive of Bill to expect him to sleep outside night after night, knowing he was banged up as bad as he was.

Granger gave his lap one more defiant swipe and eased himself onto the ground.

The apple orchards. The moon was high and no one else was there but them. Bill sighed impatiently. He was a little surprised…surely, at least
someone
should have gotten here by now. Maybe Charley rode back up to Brown's Park. He had a home up there after all, and his own interests to look after. But surely the Mexicans had no better place to go.
 

He looked over at Vincent — his face was in the shadows, but Bill could see it was pale even in the dark. That guy sure took a hard fall back on the stage road. He got boogered up pretty good. It had been Vincent's horse that tripped that night. Bill was still a little put out. They were right on top of that waddie! Another minute and they would have ridden him down or shot the horse out from underneath him. But he got away. At that point, Bill knew the three of them better hole up. Let things cool off. That waddie rode straight into Boulder and stirred up the law…why wouldn't he? Probably roused another posse and came right back up the canyon. There was still the first posse coming down from Ward. They would have been boxed in if they had stayed on the road.

If it was Granger who had fallen, Bill would have just left him behind. But it was Vincent, after all. So he shot Vincent's horse — who was too hurt to even stand. Bill let him double up behind his saddle, then they cut up the first gulch they came to and rode off into the forest. And now here they were in Hall's apple orchards, bickering over stupid things said for the hundredth time.

“How much longer we gonna wait? If they ain't here by now
they ain't coming
,” Granger told them. “Just them damn beaners and Charley Crouse, anyways. Lem's dead. Will's dead. We hold out here any longer, old man Hall is gonna find us for sure, and
we'll
be dead.”
 

Vincent glanced at Bill from the corner of his eye.

“Turd's got a point.”

It had been the topic of discussion for the whole week. The opinion swayed back and forth every night. Mainly, it was Bill who wanted to stay and wait. The pain was just getting worse for Vincent, even though he hated to take Granger's side on anything as a general principle.

Bill thought about it. Seven long days hiding in a grove behind the red sandstone hogbacks of the Front Range was finally losing its appeal. As had a week of eating apples and saddlebag-aged beef strips.

“It was a fine plan, don't get me wrong-like,” Granger said, brightening. “Them Mex'kins probably split off for gall-damn Mazatlan anyhow. Gobblin' tortillas with little brown chicas. Catching the French Pox. And ole Charley, God knows he has a mind to do whatever he piss pleases.”

“Why don't you go find
us
some tortillas,” Vincent told him and started to chuckle. But he winced as he did and held his chest. Vincent knew his ribcage was bruised badly. He knew what cracked ribs felt like, but it had never taken this long to heal up before.

The fire hissed and crackled and another cinder skittered off into the dark. Granger glared across the flames at Vincent. That guy sure thought highly of himself. Granger was tired of the insults. But he seemed to be getting through to him now, so Granger held his anger back and tried again.

“Keep in mind ole John Hall now. He's gonna figure us out here soon,” Granger reasoned. “Longer we sleep out here, more likely we are to wake up with buckshot in our asses.”

Bill sat quietly watching the embers glow. Of course, Granger made the same statement every day. Bill had heard it enough times. He would rather watch sap boil up out of the backlog than listen to anymore of this same topic. However, Bill could tell Vincent was starting to side with Granger's opinion — which meant the man was in serious pain.

“Apples, apples, all week apples.” Granger went on. “Get the backdoor trots while we're off among the willows.”

Vincent coughed and his face scrunched up. He turned to Bill.

“Maybe we ought to consider riding on?”

Perhaps waiting in the orchards had run its course, Bill thought. It was true they couldn't stay there forever. But where would they go next? Well, Bill knew. He quietly took out a small buckskin pouch and held it up in the yellow light.

“Whatcha got there?” Vincent asked him.

“Picked it off the driver.”

He unwound the twine and reached inside. He pulled out a short-handled key. He pinched it delicately between his thumb and forefinger and held it up to the light.

“Well?” Vincent prodded.

Granger leaned forward. He felt his heart beating but tried not to say a word. They had been riding together for a month, and Bill hadn't mentioned this. Obviously, Vincent didn't even know! To have big Bill Ewing reveal a secret key to him and Vincent
at the same time
made him feel like he was finally part of the gang.
This
is the inner circle, he thought. Bill, Vincent and me. Not even the infamous Charley Crouse! Granger took a breath and waited on Bill. He didn't want to say anything that might make Bill mad, or jeopardize his standing in the inner circle.

“It's a key,” Bill said finally, twisting it slowly in the firelight. “A key to a Post Office box in Denver.”

He reached back into the pouch and took out a piece of paper, rolled up tight. He unfurled it and read out loud:

“
To Soapy Smith. For the Tivoli. Courtesy, P. Sloan
.”
 

 

Chapter 2

Leadville

Colorado

10,152 ft.

 

“Cloud City!” the stagecoach driver shouted. He reached down and thumped the rooftop with the palm of his hand.

Harrison Avenue. The wide dirt street was busy. It was full of wagons, coaches and buckboards. Horses and mules pulled most of them — some oxen, too.

Casey looked out his window. Thousands of people were going about their day. It seemed like it was mostly men, miners, a sea of hats and mustaches in worn-out work clothes. Buildings rose up on both sides of the street, many two and three stories high. Most eye-catching, there were a surprising number of burros being led about. Some carried packs…and to Casey's surprise, some were even saddled.

“Look at that. Grown men riding donkeys,” he said with a lop-sided grin.

Stepping into the sunshine, Casey marveled at how many people were milling about. He shook his head, thinking how noisy it all was. He was used to cows for conversation and tomato cans for something to read. Now here he was in the biggest mining city in the Rockies.

Behind him, Julianna extended her hand with falsified grace so the cowman could help her down.

“Many thanks to you, good sir.”

Casey grinned ear to ear and grandly removed his hat with a broad sweep. His sweep nearly clipped some folks.

“M'lady, your township awaits,” he said with an attempted accent.

Julianna laughed out loud at the way he said it.

“Casey! What was that? Welsh…or moonshine Kentucky?”

A wind blew up and whipped her long brown hair around her shoulders. She playfully gave him a punch in the arm.

Walking around the stagecoach, Casey got in line behind two other travelers who were waiting to get their own luggage. Up top, the driver loosened the knots that tied everything down. He handed down several other bags first, and then lowered a burgundy travel trunk to Casey.

Several coaches were stacking up in the street right behind theirs, loading and unloading passengers. The smell of horse sweat and smelter smoke was thick in the air.

“Boy, look at all this fuss,” Casey said to Julianna.

“Leadville is certainly bustling. I already heard two guns go off.”