Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (43 page)

That had been quite a full night. Bill wondered what became of his crew. Vincent and Granger were dead near Cañon City, he knew that firsthand. Lem got shot right off the stagecoach roof back in Lefthand Canyon. That damn buckaroo shot him. Taking Granger and Vincent along, Bill tried to ride that cowboy down. Then Vincent's horse spilled and that was the end of it. The Mexicans he couldn't account for. Or Ned, whose real name was Charley Crouse.

Bill first met Charley Crouse up in Brown's Park a few years prior. Brown's Park was a little valley in the northwest corner of the state full of rustlers and thieves of all sorts. It also was a quiet little ranching community with lush green grass in the summers. A pleasant place, Bill reflected. I might have to head up there again.

The mining shack was nowhere to be seen. But that was no surprise since it had been on fire when they rode out that night. And even if it hadn't burned to the ground, the wildfire that ate up this ridge would have finished it off. Either way, he had no landmarks. The mine with the gold-filled saddle bags was somewhere up here. But Bill Ewing knew he wasn't going to find it.

 

Chapter 14

Garo

 

“What did it look like?”

“Sterling silver…with a chain,” Chubb Newitt replied.

“It was engraved,” Frank Stevens added.

That was what Red Creek wanted to hear. He was starting to put it all together. At first, he wasn't sure who he was after. Which one of them it was. The Grand Lake Gang was hard to identify as to who was who. Back when it all started, and the posse had the gang boxed up in a mine shack on the Divide, Red took the time to count their horses. There were eight of them.

He got a decent look through the window, too, and even though it was dark Red Creek got a good idea that eight was about right. He crept all the way up to the window, which was not hard since they hadn't posted any guards. There were seven inside and one outside checking on their horses. The moon had been out — although the clouds were moving at a fast clip and the light came and went. Red used to be a sharpshooter in the War. He fought for Lee at Antietam. And he was the marksman who shot General Sedgwick in the face at Spotsylvania at 800 yards. That blue coat was so arrogant. Couldn't hit an elephant, indeed! Red Creek still had the rifle. It was a .45 caliber British Whitworth, and it went everywhere he did.

Ever since Sheriff Emerson Greer was killed in Grand Lake, Red Creek had begun to feel his blood stir again. He felt purposeful. Ever since the War, he felt numb towards civilized people, civilized conversations, and the mundanity of the civilized world.

“Had his name writ on it…something Hughes,” Frank told him, staring thoughtfully out the general store window.

“And there was poetry, too,” Chubb mentioned.

Opening his notebook, Red Creek looked over the description Hugh Hughes had given him.

“
Absence from those we love is self from self.
”
 

Both Chubb and Frank lit up, nodding in surprise.

“Why, yes, that's it,” Frank affirmed.

“What did this man look like?”

“Well, a white fella. Clean-shaved. Dark hair, I suppose,” said Frank.

“Tall, though,” Chubb added.

“You're a short little bugger as it is, Chubb — every person is tall to you,” Frank chastised him. “And husky…you are Chubb, not that fella with the watch.”

Red Creek knew then it was not the Mexican. And it could not be Charley Crouse, whose face he recognized through the cabin window that night. Charley was blonde.

This meant he was trailing the very man Emerson locked up in the courthouse prison back in Grand Lake.

There were eight to begin with, in Red's count. The horse-checker Red beheaded up on the Divide that first night. The second they found dead near the stagecoach in Lefthand. One of the Mexicans was shot and killed by the B-Cross in Spring Gulch that same day. The one who broke Bill out of prison, the false newspaperman called Judas Furlong — who dressed like a dandy — was dead down near Cañon along with the gap-toothed fool. That left one Mexican still alive, and the blonde-headed Charley Crouse. Neither of which matched the description.

Red Creek knew it had to be the one they called Bill.

Griff and Emerson got the man's name when they arrested him…although what his real name was, was any man's guess. Red Creek reasoned Bill must be the gang leader. He seemed to be the most crafty, save for maybe Charley Crouse. But Charley Crouse no longer interested Red Creek. Red wanted the man who shot Emerson Greer. After all, Ben Leavick had paid him to hunt down the killer and that's what he aimed to do.

“And he was wearing Harold Chalmers' green plaid shirt. Took it from the clothesline,” Chubb said in an excitable tone. “Mrs. Chalmers put out the word, thinking it might have blown off the line. It didn't — the thief jacked it.”

“I thought the shirt looked awful familiar,” Frank said thoughtfully. “You see, Harold comes into my saloon most Saturday nights. I own the Stevens Saloon. Right down there.”

These two men were gabby. Gabby people irritated Red Creek but he
was
learning new facts as they jawed on. If he had to listen to their ramblings to learn just one or two new facts about Bill, he would tolerate it.

Already, this had been a profitable stop. He knew who he was after now. He knew Bill was wearing a green plaid shirt. He knew he had been shot by an old rancher down in Guffey, although it clearly wasn't slowing Bill down any. In addition he took the northbound train, the Denver South Park Railway, right out of Garo. The outlaw stood in this very spot at four o'clock in the afternoon not three days prior. The hunter was closing in.

Red tried to guess where Bill might be headed. Perhaps Como. Or any of those mining towns: Tarryall, Hamilton, Jefferson City. Or on to Denver itself.

Red Creek had already ridden quite a circuit looking for this man. He had ridden from Grand Lake to Ward. He had taken the train from Boulder to Denver to Pueblo. He'd ridden horseback through Cañon City, up to Guffey, and on into Garo. That was a big loop…just to hear Bill was circling back towards Denver.

But no matter. Red Creek was patient, if nothing else.

 
 

Chapter 15

Leadville

 

LG held up a ceramic jug triumphantly.

“Moonshine!” he whispered.

Casey looked back at the cabin. In the window, he could see the orange glow of hot coals in the woodstove. But the lanterns were out — Julianna was probably sound asleep by now.

It was late. But the evening was nice and there were several big stumps on the porch to sit on. Casey usually sat on one every night. Being used to long cattle drives sleeping under the stars, Casey was drawn to porch-sitting.

Julianna usually joined him, but since LG arrived Julianna rarely came out to sit. Casey knew why. She was giving them “space.” Space to talk. Every night that week, late at night, Julianna would whisper to him about how important it was to “talk” to LG. Casey let her go on about it, but mainly because she was pretty and sweet and he didn't like arguing with her. He had no intention of talking to LG about anything.

“Got this in town.”

“Open ‘er up,” Casey said to LG, quietly. “And keep your voice low.”

The cork came out with a hollow pop. LG had spent the afternoon in Leadville and Casey was glad for some quiet time. LG went to buy his train ticket since Casey suggested he better buy the ticket a day early — the Colorado Midland was a new spectacle and people were coming and going every day since they laid the tracks, he said.

“Heading out tomorr'a,” LG mentioned.

They sat in the dark rolling cigarettes and passing the jug.

“Love these things,” LG mentioned, looking at his smoldering cigarette. “Reminds me of all them trail drives. Always had a smoke. Especially when I was nighthawk.”

Casey threw him a look.

“When were you
ever
nighthawk?”

“Oh, I rode the graveyard shift,” LG said with a little indignation. “Many a time. Many a time.”

“Must of been a time when I was rep'n for another brand.”

LG reached out for the jug. Casey saw him reach but took another quick pull before passing it over. An owl was hooting up in a tall pine, just in front of the cabin.

“I remember the time, down near Walsenburg, I was on the midnight guard. Hardest rain you ever seen. Hail, too. Got soaked to the bone. After it let up, tried to light a cig but them matches were so sogged.”

“Who were you riding for?”

“The 4W…Jacob Weil, down in Purgatoire. We brought them cows all the way up from there, grazed ‘em the whole way.”

The moon was starting to rise up over the Ten-Mile Range. It was just a crescent.

“I spent a summer in Walsenburg,” Casey said. “Back in '83. I put in some hours at the feed store. But dry goods didn't suit me none. That was my last time living in a proper home. Till now.”

LG handed the jug back over again.

“So, what'll you do here? This ain't exactly a finishing ranch.”

“Nope,” replied Casey. “I'm hitched now. I can't ride the range no more. Plus the range is closing up fast. Won't
be
no range.”

Blowing smoke rings, LG got quiet.

It was true, LG knew. Homesteaders
were
eating up the open range and stringing wire. They both knew it wouldn't be possible to drive a herd up to Montana before too long. What with the railroads built up everywhere, it was easier to simply ship the cattle where they needed to go. LG could see that. He didn't like it. But he could see it coming as plain as day.

“Gonna shoe,” Casey told him.

“Ain't a bad idea,” LG responded. It made him think about his own future. “You know, managin' for Sam Hartsel ain't too bad. But, I been thinking…mebbe I'll sign on as a brand inspector down in Colorada Springs. Or Denver. Enjoy the city life for a spell.”

“Looking at a store downtown here,” Casey went on. “Right on 3rd. I can shoe horses right off the street.”

The alcohol was stronger than Casey expected. He was feeling it now. The stars were extra twinkly. He could see the North Star up above. Casey pointed at the Big Dipper.

“Ladle creeping up on midnight now.”

“Surely is,” LG said, and grinned thoughtfully.

The constellation rotated around the North Star like a clock face. That's how they always knew when their shift was over. His grin faded. He wasn't sure if he would ever point cattle up the trail again or ride nighthawk on a long drive. He could stay on at the Hartsel Ranch as long as he needed, and oversee the breeding program. He wasn't sure, though. He wasn't sure what he needed. LG wasn't too sure about anything anymore.

“Hey, pard.”

Casey looked over at him, expecting the jug. But LG was still holding it in his lap.

“I feel cruddy — how I lit out.”

Casey turned back to the night sky. He was feeling the buzz of the alcohol. Each time he turned his head the stars seemed to move around.

“Once I realized what was going on, I shot that ki-yote off the roof,” LG continued softly. “I heard shots back there, but I was on the wrong end of the wagon.”

Casey leaned over and took the jug out of LG's lap. LG didn't seem to notice.

“I just had my ol' Navy .36, cap and ball…not a quick-shootin' gun. Clunky. And then they set upon me. The only route I had was on down the road. Was all I could do.”

The owl continued to hoot somewhere above them. He took a breath.

“Could have rode back later,” Casey pointed out, after a minute.

LG looked up at the treetops. He didn't know what to say. Or why he didn't ride back after he shook those riders.

“They shot me,” Casey said. “Almost killed me. Like they killed Ira. And Edwin. Right there in front of me.”

Casey took another swallow and set the jug on the ground in between them. The owl was hooting again but he couldn't tell where it was now. Whenever he turned his head one way or the other, the trees seemed to bend.

 

Chapter 16

Garo

 

Driving the carryall through the tall August grass was pleasant. Til got two good cuttings this season, might even get a third if the weather would hold. He was thoroughly enjoying the ride and the morning air was enlivening.

The draft horses were walking quietly and seemed to get along with each other. That was not always the case. They liked to bicker. Especially Bear, the swing horse, liked to nip at the lead horse, Heavy. Heavy had a lot of bite marks on his neck. But today they weren't bickering. Just walking nicely.

Til knew the pleasant summer days would be over soon. Autumn came early in the high country so he always savored the easy weather.

Laura sat next to him, her arm hooked around his elbow. Her long blonde hair was blowing with the light breeze. Little Walker came along behind them on a gray Arabian mare, riding confidently.

It was Laura's first day of work and Til thought it was a fair enough occasion to take her into town himself. He figured it would give her a chance to think ahead without worrying about anything else — not even the bickery drafts. Laura had been almost too excited to get any sleep the night before.

Chubb Newitt sent word the week before that the Garo schoolmarm had up and moved to Fairplay, without much notice. The school year had already begun, and Garo was suddenly without its teacher. Laura, of course, was beside herself and accepted the role without hesitation.

There were enough children in Garo and the outlying ranches to justify both a schoolhouse and a teacher's salary. The schoolhouse was only a few years old, but in that short time a half dozen young ladies passed in and out of the occupation.

Laura found that curious. According to Chubb, none of the children were happy about attendance. He said it was because they had a different teacher each year, sometimes more often than that. He didn't know why, but he guessed the glamour of the big mining towns lured them all away. Watch out, he warned her, for the small town blues.