Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (26 page)

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?”

“Pa, Augustus is right behind me.”

Parker Mulock stood there, holding his hat with one hand and massaging his scalp with the other. Charley looked him over. How many more Mulocks were going to pop out of the woodwork?

Another ghostly figure appeared in the storm. He rushed across the yard and into the gloomy foyer. Unlike his eldest son Parker, who was sopping wet, Mr. Mulock's cousin Augustus Gaumer was wisely wearing a yellow slicker. He immediately hung it on a wall peg, where it dripped on the hardwood floor.

“Is it bad, Augie?” Mulock asked.

“It ain't good.”

“Well, it sure as hell ain't good if you're here. Boys, let's move this into the great room. Build us a fire!”

Mulock marched across the foyer and through a wide archway which led into the dining room. Charley and Caverango felt as if they had been forgotten. None of Mulock's cowboys showed them any interest, and the Mulock boys followed their father without so much as a look back.

Caverango watched them go, feeling a ray of hope. They were simply looking for a free meal when they first saw the IM. That was what a lot of cowhands did — and most ranchers were happy to feed a wandering vaquero. But this did not feel right. It felt like some kind of lion's den.

“
Vamanos?
” Caverango suggested, beneath his breath.
 

Charley's temple was bright red from the swipe he had been given. Surely, thought Caverango, even Charley Crouse realized this was an opportune time to ride out. It was hailing like crazy — which would only aid their escape. The Mulocks would not try and ride them down in a hail storm.

“Naw,” Charley said softly. He watched the group go through the archway. The dining room was the tallest part of the Big House. It was the room with all the windows. On a clear day, the Mulocks had a full view of the grassy prairie from their supper tables — all the way across South Park. At the present moment, of course, all anyone could see was hail.

“Walk out now, they'll cut us down for sure,” he reasoned. “Follow of our own volition — they welcome us as one of their own.”

He touched the side of his head gingerly, with his fingertips. There was no blood. He had taken worse hits to the head than this.

“Ol' boy's savage as a meat axe,” Charley announced. He grinned suddenly. “Might be a crew we can tie to.”

Caverango watched him stride off through the archway with a fresh spring in his step. With one last longing glance at the front door, Caverango scooted off after Charley.

This was his one chance to get away from both Charley Crouse and the IM. But Caverango's fears of sudden electrical death were too strong, after all. No matter what he told himself, he knew he couldn't go out there now. Not in a storm like this. Every minute the sky lit up. The thought of being blasted off his horse was worse than staying with Charley and the Mulock clan.

He wished Poqito hadn't been shot. If Poqito was there, then Caverango would have felt a lot better. As it was, he would have to wait to make his escape. Besides, Charley could very well be right — the Mulocks
did
seem like the type to chase people down.

Caverango didn't want to get shot, and he didn't want to get lightninged. So he reluctantly stepped into the gloomy dining room and took a seat next to Charley Crouse.

There was a large circular fireplace in the middle of the room, with an open hearth on both sides. The chimney seemed to go up and up and disappear in the shadows. Peter, the youngest of the Mulock boys, seemed to know his place and went right to work building a fire. He singled out a couple of Mulock's cowboys to help. They brought in loads of fresh split wood, kept dry beneath the veranda, and soon had the fire roaring.

Charley and Caverango sat quietly near the windows.

“Big trouble with the stocks. Half them mines are floundering, closing up,” Augustus told Mr. Mulock in a sober voice. “We've got $200 thousand riding on it. All our eggs in the same damn basket.”

“How much in the vault?”

“Pshaw,” Augustus waved his hand. “Five grand in cash. The bank is
teetering
.”
 

Mulock frowned and drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

“Get us some beers,” he told Peter gruffly.

Peter hustled into the kitchen.

Charley perked up. What was this? They had just stepped into an interesting conversation! They might learn something useful. That something might even save them — or it might kill them. Either way Charley Crouse was paying close attention.

“At the end of the day, it's insolvent,” Augustus explained. “Matter of time till it is broke. Collapse is imminent.”

Mr. Mulock tapped his fingers on the table. He did not look pleased.

“This is timely then,” Edson chimed in. “I happen to know for fact that George Green just sold the 63.”

“When did you hear that?” his father demanded.

“Talked to him this very morning. Told me he's planning on making a deposit. Could be riding to Cañon even today. You can bet he'll want that holed up in the bank, quick as can be.”

“Who did he sell to?” Augustus asked.

“Haver,” Edson said. “Owns the Cleveland Cattle Company.”

“Fifty thousand green,” Mulock said, still frowning. “We're close-fisted on this, Augie. Don't you dare bet that out, you
hear me?
”
 

Augustus looked as if he was stung by a bee.

“I won't bet nothing out.”

“You just slick up and be that dandy cashier you been all along. Keep receiving funds, like everything is fine. We need all we can reap now.”

Mulock's face got darker as he spoke.

“I won't be the one sucking hind teat. I'll be in Mexico if this thing blows up.”

 
 

Chapter 8

Whale Mine

Webster Pass

 

“A buckaroo don't milk no cows.” LG said, offended.

“You look like you just ate a skunk,” Cassius told him.

LG turned and looked at the cattle as if he was seeing them for the first time. There were only about fifty head total, spread out in the pine.

“We are short-handed,” said Cassius. “Everybody's got to pitch in.”

The Whale Mine was so high up in elevation, it seemed like there was hardly any air to breathe. LG caught himself wheezing when he walked from the bunkhouse to the meal hall. The prospect of milking cows also made him wheeze.

Cassius sighed impatiently while LG mulled this over. He knew LG was a cattle puncher, and like every cattle puncher he ever met, had no interest in milking cows. But Cassius was a realist.

“Rest of us are in the mine.”

Avoiding Cassius' eye, LG counted through the local peaks. There was Sheep Mountain, Whale and Glacier Peaks to the south. Up north, he could see Handcart and Red Cone clear as day. All of them rose so high, half the time they were lost in the clouds.

“Would you rather break ore?” Cassius asked, getting irritated.

LG put his hat back on and squinted against the sunlight. In that moment, it sank in: he was not working for a regular cow outfit. It had no chuckwagon, no trail boss…not even a brand. This was just a no-name silver mine with some ratty-looking cows crapping in the trees.

“I would rather not break ore,” LG muttered.

“Milk them cows, then,” Cassius said. “And collect all the eggs, too. Take ‘em to the kitchen.”

The coop was situated next to the corral. It was full of squawking chickens. LG had to walk past it every day, more than once. Sometimes he would throw rocks at the hens to stir them up for fun. Now the indignities were stacking up quicker than he could say Jack Robinson.

“Be baking rhubarb cobbler next.”

But Casssius had already stalked off. He had more important things to do than argue with LG Pendleton. There was a mine to oversee. When the cat's away, he knew all too well, the mice will play. And half these miners needed to be supervised closely. High-grading was a problem — it was all too easy to fill a tin lunch bucket with ore. Of course, he only paid the miners $2.25 a day. He knew they were getting $2.50 up in Leadville. But this was not Leadville.

The Whale Mine was remote. LG had been cutting through the backcountry for quite some time when he ran across it, several weeks back. Work meant three square meals and a bunk, and he was ready for those comforts. He had been through a rough spell, with too much on his mind to stay out in the backcountry any longer — with only his horse for company.

LG headed over to the paddock where the horses were kept. Specter was standing on the far side with his head between the rails, nosing for grass. The paddock had been picked over for so long, it was just dirt. But there was some tasty looking grass growing right outside the fence.

LG uncoiled his rope and stepped inside. There were about twenty horses in there. Like normal, they all scattered. Specter knocked his head on the rail trying to back up, but LG was not going after him. He wanted the dun instead and dropped a loop around its neck on the first try.

Even though Cassius had said there were other cowhands employed at the Whale, they were actually miners by trade. LG discovered they could sit a saddle — but that was about it. One of them, a freckly kid named John, was sitting on the top rail gnawing on an apple core. John had worked at the Whale all summer long. Now that an experienced stockman had signed on, John liked to spend his free time following LG around. He was impressed with LG's ability to throw a loop and whooped when LG caught the dun so easily.

“John-boy. Get the gate. I need you.”

John slid off the fence and opened the gate for LG.

“Only got a few minutes,” John told him, flinging the apple core into the paddock. “I'm on supper duty. Helping cookie on the butcher-block today.”

“Naw, you're needed right here, pard.”

The Whale Mine was owned and operated by two brothers: Cassius and Franklin. Well, Cassius ran it and Franklin mainly drank. No one ever saw him much. LG had never even met the man. The Whale produced a significant amount of silver ore. In fact, it had produced so well that the brothers built a smelter and a tramway to carry the ore. LG and John could hear voices carrying down the slope, along with the ring of mattocks.

A seasoned cowhand at the Whale was a rarity, so Cassius hired LG the moment he rode in. And for LG it had been nice up until that moment — being the top hand. Now the top hand was handling cow teats and fowl.

He saddled the dun and rode into the cattle pen, cutting out a cow and her calf. They bolted away together — the calf sticking close to its momma. The dun turned out to be a good cutting horse and took after them instantly. LG was surprised. These fellows may not have any real cowhands up here, he thought, but somehow they got a hold of one decent cowhorse. But the dun was rusty. She wasn't used to a real rider, he could tell.

LG shook out a loop and roped the momma. The cow did not like what was happening, and twisted and kicked.

“We best snub her. She won't stand pretty for us. Put your money on that.”

LG pulled the cow into the round pen. He took her straight to the snubbing post and tied her head up against it. John ran off to find a pail. After a few moments she settled down.

John came running back with a pail. He held it out to LG.

“Here it is!”

“All you, bud.”

John frowned. The camp cook was surely wondering where he was by now, and he was going to be mad if John never came back from his lunch break.

“Careful now,” LG warned him. “Don't get stomped.”

John set the pail on the dirt and slid it beneath the cow's udder with his boot. He squatted down but paused, wiggling his fingers uncertainly. John had been raised in New York. Milk came in glass bottles in New York. He glanced up at LG, hoping for some advice.

“What do I do?”

“Grab on.”

John shrugged and reached in. Even though her head was snubbed against the post, the rest of her was free enough. Her hind hoof snapped out and caught him right in the forehead.