Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (30 page)

In a couple hours, Casey would be bringing the buckboard into town. He made it clear he did not want her riding into Leadville by herself, for any reason. It made Julianna smile knowing Casey worried about her like that. She suspected it was partly because they were newly wed, and he was being protective. Perhaps, though, it could simply be realism. Leadville was not exactly a saintly place. And she noticed the city was made up mostly of men — miners working rough claims in a rough town, looking to get rich. And those that did not get rich got drunk, even drunker than those who
did
get rich. In a city revolving around silver, drunkenness and violence seemed to be close companions.

“We simply must have you and your husband over for dinner…this week's end,” Elizabeth Tabor announced boldly as she swept into the office. Julianna was startled and stood up quickly, still getting used to Mrs. Tabor's surprising and often dramatic entrances.

Elizabeth Tabor was barely into her early 40s but had at least fifteen years on Julianna. The age and class difference gave Julianna the awkward sense that she was out of her element. And to complicate matters, Elizabeth “Baby Doe” Tabor had a duality about her — in some moments she was proper, well-spoken and demonstrably grand. Then in a heartbeat she would slip into personable colloquialisms and joviality as if she were talking to a sister. Julianna was never quite sure which version she would be talking to each day. The lofty aristocrat or the uncouth girl.

“Mrs. Tabor,” Julianna said courteously, “My husband and I would like that very much.  Many thanks.”

“Just call me Baby Doe, remember? I don't care to be called his
Mrs
.” she insisted, quite down to earth. “I ain't ancient nor am I matronly. Nor am I Haw's previous marital attachment —
Mrs.
reminds me of that intolerable hag. And I hope you don't think me unapproachable. I like you Julianna. You're not like these Leadvillites, all prim and proper and capable of speaking about nothing but tea and the Sherman Silver Purchase Act. Now what was
your lesser half's
name again?”
 

“Casey.”

“Why don't you and Casey come up to the house, then! It will be fun,” Baby Doe said with a quick wink. “I need fun. We'll open up some wine. Haw just had a case of French wine imported, straight from the vineyards of Libournais in France. Merlot — yuck. But I've still got a few bottles of the Argentinian stuff in the pantry. Malbec! It's worth sharing. Say you'll come. Say it.”

Julianna was struck by how familiar Mrs. Tabor was acting with her. It was actually quite nice. Imagine, Julianna wondered — to have a friendly and genuine conversation with someone of her own gender. Indeed, the city was overrun with males. The allure of bonanzas and lode veins brought an unending stream of fortune seekers.

And what of the women that did populate the town? They were just a small fraction of its inhabitants. The list of potential friends grew smaller the more she thought about it. Ruling out the “
soiled doves”
roving State Street, and the preening ladies on the prowl for rich husbands, the list dwindled quite quickly.
 

Although, Julianna
had
seen a few women around that might fit the profile. Over the past few weeks, she had been making a mental checklist. There were female teachers working at Central School up on Spruce Street. Possibilities there. A female doctor had a clinic up the road on Harrison. Then there was a printer
across the street and a woman clerking at the Delaware. Julianna even noticed a couple lady-prospectors heading in and out of the assayer's.
They
must have spunk, she thought. But stranger than all, Baby Doe Tabor was befriending her. And the more she found out about Baby Doe, the stranger it became.
 

“I'll come! And so will Casey!”

“Splendid, splendid,” Baby Doe exclaimed. She strolled to the window and looked out. “Haw is in a
tiff
. He'll need to blow off steam. His ex is coming to town next week, a tightly wound blemish of a wench.”

Slipping back down into her chair, Julianna wasn't sure how to react to that one. Hag? Wench? She was starting to notice that conversations with the Silver King's wife might take unexpected turns at any moment. Baby Doe's eyes were scouring the streets, especially the collection of stagecoaches spewing their weary passengers into the misty street.

“Did
I
say that?” Baby Doe asked, clearly a rhetorical question, and spun around on a tall heel. “Perhaps wench is too kind. She already leeched my poor husband in the divorce. What more does that paunchy sow think she can get?”
 

 

Chapter 16

Arkansas River Valley

West of Cañon City

 

“Well, damnity damn — can't
believe
all this cash!”

That had become Granger's mantra for the last twenty miles. He was too excited to even sit still on his horse for any length of time. The animal was getting tired of his antsy movements and had taken to crow-hopping every mile or so. He immediately obliged with another series of crow-hops but was unable to unseat the filthy bandito.

“Shut up with the damnities, will you?” Vincent scolded him.

Vincent's chest pains were so bad now he could barely turn to cast the man a dour look. In fact, he could barely turn his head one inch to either side, and that was the full range of motion.

“It's painful enough just sitting my saddle,” Vincent continued, his jaw clenched. “Listening to you say the same thing over and over for the past twenty miles? I won't tolerate it no more.”

Earlier that afternoon they passed through Cañon City. Granger was so jittery about the one hundred thousand dollars cash that Bill thought it unwise to stop, even for a meal. He simply did not trust Granger to maintain his composure in public. Not only did they have to get through the town itself without some Granger-sized gaffe…in order to start up the pass they had to ride right under the walls of the Colorado State Penitentiary!

Somehow Granger kept it together, but Bill never let him have an ounce of talk time with any passerby as they progressed through. All afternoon since, Bill had been watching their backtrail for law. The tension was finally easing off, and with it the heat of the day.

They were heading west, following the Arkansas upriver. After leaving town they passed the deep canyon for which Cañon City got its name. The Royal Gorge, Bill thought bitterly, and its train wars. He had actually been rustling cattle in Beulah in those days. The Denver & Rio Grande was fighting the Santa Fe. He hired on with the D&RG as a gunfighter just to have an excuse to shoot at people. Boy, that was ten years ago, Bill thought.

Even in the foothills, this was still the high desert of southern Colorado. The short grass in the vicinity was mainly brown, even though it was a wet summer everywhere else. They were passing a lot of cholla and prickly pear, piñon and cedar. It was all spread out and they had a fairly unobstructed view in both directions. Bill was glad, so could keep a watchful eye on the trail and terrain around them. Traveling with saddle bags brimming with paper cash made him watchful.

Bill's eyes were never restful when he had so much money on him. In fact, he really didn't like to be so flush when horseback. At first he was tempted to find a mining shaft and bury it — like he did up near Grand Lake. But that had been gold, a substance that was not prone to decay. Cash on the other hand
was
prone to decay. It might become rotten if wet. Or burn. Or get eaten by varmints.
 

Sitting upright, stiff as a board, Vincent was the picture of discomfort. Bill knew the man would not be able to travel far or quickly. He was sure the man had more than just busted ribs. It had been weeks now, well over a month, since his horse went down and took him with it. If it was just ribs, he would be riding fine by now. Also, Bill had seen Vincent's chest. It did not look right. In fact his whole torso was black and blue — and a little bulby around the gut region.

At least they were alone. Many people took the train into South Park, so it could have been worse. They passed some freighters a few miles back, moving slower than they were. Up ahead Bill could make out a dozen riders moving west, in the same direction they were. There were a lot of birds in the trees, singing. Finches, he guessed. A crow kept cawing somewhere.

Ten
years
since those train wars, Bill thought again. That was a long time. Ten years of marauding. Well, professional marauding anyhow. He squinted up at the sun. It was arcing down in front of them. It had been blistering hot down in Pueblo yesterday and just as bad through Cañon today. The further they got into the foothills, and the higher the trail rose, Bill knew the general temperature would eventually get cooler.

Wouldn't it be pleasant to just drift off into obscurity? Get a little hacienda somewhere it was cool. On a river maybe…with some horses. Retire from the trail life. He had the money now.

Weeks on the move with just Vincent and Granger had worn thin. Vince he had befriended many years ago. He hated to say it, but the man was on his way out, with that bulby black and blue gut and whatever else was broken inside. And then there was Granger — both a fool and a liability. It was good to have someone like that to throw in with, of course. If something undesirable needed to be accomplished, the fool could do the errand. If a gunfight ensued, the fool could be sent in as a decoy or target, to draw out a shooter's whereabouts. Yet his inability to maintain posture when traveling with substantial amounts of money set the man squarely as a liability again.

“Bill. Might need me a doctor after all,” Vincent said severely. “Prob'ly should have done it in Denver, got it over with.”

“Aw, you heard Bill…we had to piss in an' piss out of Denver,” Granger interjected. “No time to piddle around.”

“I swear — I'll pull that blotchy little tongue right out.”

“O, I'm all puckered.”

Looking over at his old friend, Bill nodded thoughtfully. Healing would not come naturally now. True to what Granger said, Bill would never have stopped for doctoring in Denver. After all, they had
just
emptied out that PO Box. They had to get out of there. Then there was Colorado Springs and Pueblo — but with a potential pursuant in Soapy Smith and a hundred grand weighing on the mind, a sore test of Granger's ability to portray nonchalance, Bill was keen to pass on through the big cities as quick as could be.
 

“Maybe up in Chaffee County somewhere,” he suggested. “Them hot springs in Poncha might do you some good.”

 

Chapter 17

 

“Swap them saddles.”

Bill's voice was tense. He stood by Vincent's bay, straining to hold the man's weight as he slowly rolled off. The white stripe on the horse's nose glowed softly in the starlight. Vincent was just a shadow — and just as talkative as one. He had been hunched over the saddle horn ever since the sun went down.

“Crimany! He's all stoved up,” Granger whispered. He had just stolen three horses.

“I said swap them saddles.”

They were tucked up near the trail in a stand of cedar.

They had quietly passed several other camps in the darkness, and Bill wanted to keep on passing quietly. He hoped to make Poncha Springs by sunrise. But Vincent was fading. And their troubles were piling up. Not only was Vincent on the decline, his bay had come up lame. The footing was rough. Bill's own appaloosa had lost a shoe a mile out of Cañon City, but he had no intention of turning back at the time. Granger's horse was the only sound one among them.

Bill knew their horses were spent, as well, thanks to this desert heat. Add to that the fact they'd been riding for days on end. He kept an eye out for replacements and saw a convenient thing: a group of cowboys snoozing around a large campfire less than a mile back. Granger may be idiotic in his banter and mannerisms, but his craft at horse stealing was valuable at times. This was one of those times. He retrieved three of the cowboys' horses without causing a stir. But Bill didn't want to boost the man's self-worth with too much praise. So he didn't.

It only took five minutes to swap the saddles. But it took nearly twice as long to hoist Vincent up on one — since he was unconscious. Bill
had
pushed him into the saddle on the first try…but Vincent slowly tipped right on over the far side. Bill scurried around to catch him, but it was too late.

“Would you get over here and help out!” Bill spat. He was on edge.

Granger heard Vincent hit the ground and glanced over curiously. He frowned at Bill's reproachful tone but came over dutifully. Together, they lifted Vincent back up and shoved him into place. Bill knelt down and picked up Vincent's squashed hat. The crown was flattened evenly with the brim. Bill punched inside the crown and tried to reshape it, but it was mangled.

“Shoot. Vince won't like that,” Bill said. As long as he had known him, Vincent always erred on the side of vanity in his dress.
To the nines
, he would always say whenever Bill made note of it. He wasn't a dandy, but Bill liked to josh him as if he were. Now Vincent's nice hat was crushed. But Bill supposed a crushed hat wasn't on the man's mind at the moment.
 

“Tie him on,” he instructed and stalked off.

The sky overhead was dark and the stars were sharp. Bill lit a cigar and took a swig from his canteen. The water was still warm even though the evening had cooled down dramatically. What was he going to do? His plan had been to ride into South Park. Maybe up to Leadville. Or Aspen. That gold from Kinsey City was still buried up on the Divide. He could go back for it, although it was a fair piece in the wrong direction. Between the gold and the hundred thousand he now had, why not settle down? Go respectable. The memories about the railroad war had started him thinking. Vincent he could leave at Poncha Springs to heal up. Granger he could leave in a gulch somewhere, with a hole in his head. Then Bill could retire. Go about the business of happifying.