Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (44 page)

Or perhaps, Laura suspected, it was because certain people's children were unruly and disruptive. Oh, she had met Chubb's son Billy — and he was no petunia. She knew temperamental boys were capable of grand feats of insubordination. And in Laura's opinion Billy Newitt seemed capable of chasing off inexperienced school teachers single-handedly, through pure malaise.

She smiled at Til, who smiled back.

“I'm so pleased!” she told him. “Initially, I was only hoping to assist with the school. Or start a library. But look! It's all come about so quickly, so unexpectedly. How wonderful!”

“Better than making pearl snaps?” Til asked, joshing her.

“Better than making pearl snaps,” she said and dug her finger in his ribs. “Although, which man in all of South Park has the most dazzling shirt snaps?”

“I do believe it's me.”

He puffed out his chest. Laura laughed at him.

“Such a peacock!”

 

Chapter 17

Kinsey City

 

The river sounds were loud here. Muddy Creek and the Blue came together not fifty feet away, and then joined the Colorado River just beyond. The water was not particularly high this time of year. Even though it wasn't September yet, a couple cottonwood trees already had a handful of yellow leaves.

Riding up to the Kinsey Inn, Red Creek studied the area from the saddle. Calling this place a
city
was a tad fallacious, he thought. If he had sneezed, he would have ridden right through and never saw it. There were a lot of cattle grazing about. Across the river from the Inn, he saw a calving barn, a corn bin, the defunct Kinsey City Bank, and Kremmling's Store.

Red Creek slid off his horse, led him up to the Kinsey Inn's hitching rail and wrapped a rein around it. There were a couple other horses grazing outside, tacked up but grazing unattended. Maybe this was a nice quiet town where people let their horses wander around while they got a bite to eat. But Red wanted his horse where he could see it. Especially with his Whitworth in the scabbard. He could simply carry it inside — but he didn't want to make a spectacle of himself.

He headed up the stairs onto the veranda. The door was propped open and flies were buzzing in and out of the windows. Maude, the bulgy inn matron in a plain blue dress, was chatting with two men at a table. When she saw Red Creek come through the door, she hustled right over.

“Afternoon, dear! Mutton is the meal of the day. Does that suit you?”

“Suits me fine.”

Maude saw Red check over the two men talking quietly at the table. She nodded their way.

“Them's the brothers,” she said in a singsong voice.

Red Creek looked at her blankly. It was clear she expected him to recognize who they were.

“Aaron and John Kinsey. I thought you might be here to sign on. They're recruiting cowboys to rake alfalfa.”

“No, ma'am.”

“Sit over there then, and I'll bring you some nice hot coffee and a plate of chops.”

Maude disappeared in the back, the big blue dress swishing around her portly frame.

Red leaned back in the sturdy chair. Someone knew how to build furniture up here. The table was stout, too, he thought, and must weigh as much as a heifer. The two brothers
looked
like brothers. One had dark hair, the other light brown…but each had the same mustache, wide set eyes, and monotoned voice. They were talking about the merits of alfalfa.

Maude returned with coffee, a steaming plate, and a carefree grin. The mutton chops smelled good. Red had been living off of jerked venison and a lot of fresh fish. Red was pretty good at catching fish. He carried fish line in his saddle bags and usually fashioned a pole out of branches he would find. But he liked mutton when he could get it.

“There you go, hun!” she said, but was in no hurry to leave. She liked to see men eat. It made her feel like she was doing what she was put on this earth to do: feeding people.

“Ma'am, I was wondering. You seen a feller come through here recent, in a green plaid shirt with a nice pocketwatch?”

She pursed her lips and put her hands on her hips.

“Surely did. Not a couple days ago, if I remember rightly.”

The Kinsey brothers turned in their seats, abruptly ending their dull talk.

“Friend of yours?”

“Afraid not,” Red replied. He could tell they were interested, but not in a kindly way. He decided to be straightforward.

“The man's wanted. Right up in Grand Lake, actually. Been tracking him all over the state…and here he's looped right back to Grand County.”

Aaron and John stared at each other, raising their eyebrows in the same manner at the same time.

“He was very complimentary about my raspberry pie!” Maude exclaimed.

“He also helped himself to a horse from my corral,” Aaron said bitterly.

“Are you sure it was him?” Maude asked.

John looked at her and sighed loudly.

“How many times we got to go through this, Maude?”

“Was the only visitor we've had, recent,” Aaron reasoned. “No one else has passed through.”

“Makes the most sense,” John agreed.

Kinsey City was small — just the inn and Kremmling's store, the tiny bank and the brothers' alfalfa ranch. Red figured it would be better just to speak freely and see what the locals knew. This wasn't much of a town and folks seemed open enough. He bet anything unusual got around quickly.

“Well, I'll be!” Maude said, and slid into a chair at Red's table. “Are you a bounty hunter?”

“Yep.”

“Man stole a horse,” Aaron reiterated, leaning forward on his elbows. “Just a quarterhorse. Big bay. White nip on its nose.”

“Sock on his left hind. All the way up to his hock,” his brother added.

Red Creek made a show of pulling out his notebook and scribbling the information down. He did not really care about their horse, and he wouldn't spend any effort bringing it back. But the description might be useful. Ben Leavick had paid him to hunt down the Grand Lake Gang — these people had not. The stolen horse was their responsibility.

“Tracks led due east,” Aaron mentioned. “We're short-handed this season. Rowed up alfalfa all week long. Trying to get it in the barn a'fore any rains come in. Or else I'd chase that sun'bitch down myself.”

“We
surely
woulda chased him down,” John chimed in and banged his fist on the tabletop.
 

Maude wore a look of absolute surprise and began fanning her face with a napkin.

“Just can't believe it! I fed the man my good raspberry pie. He paid for it, too. I didn't suspect the man was a horse thief or I never would have served him any raspberry pie.”

“I'm sure you wouldn't have, ma'am” Red said.

“You
hang
that sun'bitch horse thief,” Aaron told Red Creek.

“
Hang
that sun'bitch,” John echoed.
 

Another man strode in through the open doorway. It was Rudolph “Kare” Kremmling, owner of Kremmling's Store across the river. He walked up and rubbed his hands together excitedly.

“Who's getting hung?”

“The feller who ate Maude's raspberry pie. And then stole my dern horse,” Aaron said.

He also robbed your bank,
Red thought, but decided not to mention it. What if that information stirred them up, and they invited themselves along? Red didn't need the company.

Kare had watched Red Creek ride up to the inn and decided it was as good a time as any for supper. His store was empty at the time. Of course Kinsey City was pretty empty most of the time, generally speaking.

The Kinsey brothers' moved in and set up their ranch a few years back, but it was Kare's store that brought people in. Then one day the brothers decided to nominate the area “Kinsey City.” Kare was flabbergasted — he found that irritating. Hell, he found the brothers irritating. If this was a city, it shouldn't be named after a couple alfalfa farmers. No one went to the Kinsey's for anything
except
alfalfa. They came to Kare for everything else…for supplies, for mail, for fancy ceramic dishes and Chinese teapots. They came to Kremmling's Store. When Maude wanted some rhubarb earlier that year, who was it that freighted it in? Kare did, special order, just for her.

“You ain't got your horse back yet?” Kare asked Aaron, and pretended to be shocked. He knew they hadn't but decided to rub salt in the wound.

“Had to rake…a'fore the rains come in,” Aaron said, his face getting red. “Got to be dry to rake alfalfa!”

John's face also got red.

Kare smiled a secret smile. He was pleased to get their goat.

 

Chapter 18

Brown's Park

Colorado

Pots Creek

 

“Why, Bill Ewing, I am tongue-tied!” Mary Crouse exclaimed. “Charley told me you was buzzard feed.”

Mary stood in the open doorway, hair pulled back in a tight braid. Her sleeves were rolled and her forearms white with flour.

“Where is that presumptive warbly-eyed sack o' corn?” Bill replied with a gallant bow.

“Racing,” she answered. “And he ain't got warbly eyes. Just one…it's only a
bit
warbly-like.”
 

“As I am only a
bit
thieving-like,” Bill told her. “Racing…against whom?”
 

“Matt Rash, trail boss for Middlesex.”

“Don't know him.”

“Lots change when you're gone for so long, Bill.”

“Charley dope his horse?”

Mary's smile dropped into a scowl. She stood up tall in the doorway and folded her floury arms.

“Charley don't dope no horses. Fair an' square as always, Bill Ewing, and don't you think crosswise again, no two how's or what's about it!”

He realized his chances at a warm meal were suddenly slipping away. Bill struck a professorial pose and gave her an indignant look.

“Of course not. I was just funning you.”

“What do you want, Bill?” she asked tartly.

“I'm back for good, Mary. Do I scent the famous Mary Crouse dumplings? Is that what I smell?”

He leaned to one side to look past her shoulder and sniffed the air. Knowing he meant no harm, Mary softened a little and let him in.

“Charley be back when the race is won. You can stay for the evening meal, if you're of a mind.”

“Obliged.”

The cabin was not a large place. It had been built in a stand of tall cottonwoods, which peppered the air with white puffs like snowfall.

“What else is new?” Bill asked, taking a seat at the table.

The small windows were open and cotton tufts blew in, dotting everything. Mary went back to kneading.

“Charley and Overholt opened a saloon and livery. Down in Vernal.”

“A saloon for all them
Mormons?
Mormons don't drink. Guess that's like selling stripes to a Zebra.
I am impressed at his entrepreneurial spirit.”
 

“Ten dollar words don't impress me none. And they don't cook dumplin's.”

The woman had always been a whipper snapper, Bill knew. But she was easy to get along with. He liked to get her feathers up — it was all in good fun. Bill had been raised in the Park, but went on to spend more time on the trail than in any one place. Now, with everything that had happened, he was thinking Brown's Park would be a good place to settle again.

Bill got up and went to the window. He liked the fresh breeze. It also brought in the sounds of the horses, grazing just outside. Charley was known to breed and raise horses.

“Bassett's still on Pablo Springs?”

“Where else would they be?” Mary replied without looking up from her dough. “John Jarvie shut down the post office in June. Hear that?”

The afternoon was pleasant. The sky was blue with just a few wispy clouds stretched out overhead, but it wasn't going to rain today.

“They told him to look into bad money orders. Meaning that shady ol' Kraus up in the Vernal office. Jarvie said he weren't no spy…so he bagged up the books, inkwells and even the pens, sent it all in and quit.”

“Oh my,” Bill said, genuinely surprised. John Jarvie was a fixture in the Park. He ran the only supply store for seventy miles. It was in the Utah half of the valley, on the north bank of the Green River. Everyone knew where it was.

“He's still running the store, though?”

“Yessir, still runnin' his store.”

Brown's Park was well known for being chock-full of rustlers. It was a narrow mountain valley over thirty-five miles long. Half of it was in Colorado and half was in Utah — and it was an easy ride up to Wyoming through any number of draws, which made escapes convenient on those occasions when lawmen chose to ride into the Park. Which they rarely did.

Of course, there
were
some honest people living there. John Jarvie was one. Herb Bassett was another. In Brown's Park, the code was to live and let live. Rustlers ranched side by side with common folk and no one batted an eye.

“So, how can Charley just walk back in here after what he done to Speck?” Bill asked in a conversational tone. He held his breath. Maybe Mary wouldn't blow up over the comment.

She didn't. She was rolling out the dough with a rolling pin.

“Speck's alive and fine!” she said and laughed lightly. “Don't know
how
that rumor took, but the man's still working the ferry. Happy and hale.”

Bill raised his eyebrows. He heard that Charley gutted poor Speck Williams, who ran the Green River ferry. Speck's real name was Albert — a black man who was once a slave. His skin was so speckly that people called him Speck.