Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave

 

SIPPING WHISKEY IN A SHALLOW GRAVE

 

 

 

 

 

 

MARK MITTEN

 

SIPPING WHISKEY IN A SHALLOW GRAVE

Copyright © 2012, by Mark Mitten.

Cover Copyright © 2012 by Mark Mitten.  

NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 50-A W. Main St., Mechanicsburg, PA 17055 USA or [email protected].

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FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

Printed in the United States of America

November 2012

 

Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-146-6
Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-147-3
ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-148-0

Published by:

Sunbury Press

Mechanicsburg, PA

www.sunburypress.com

 

 

Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania   USA

 

“Nothing like being drawn back into another time!  Old West Colorado comes alive in this novel.  Depicting the many different lives, of Lawmen, Thieves, and true working Cowboys out on the Range.  All done with the authenticity that makes you really understand what life might have been like back then.  Not the glorified romance of many tales of the West, but bringing alive the true hardships, of an untamed Country.  While letting us realize what tough, rugged individuals, they must have been, all in the name of survival.  A great read, that completely revived my Western Spirit!”

     Fred Hargrove  

     Western Cowboy, Singer / Songwriter

 

 

 

“Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave is a fun and enthralling read!  Mark Mitten has managed to create both an authentic voice, filled with western flair, and a freshness. The characters are so alive that you expect them to walk through the door as you put the book down.  A great first effort for this wonderful new author!”

     Carol Heiden

     Executive Director, Colorado Therapeutic Riding Center

 

 

"While reading Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave, I found myself in the middle of the action both mentally and emotionally.  Mark does a great job developing the characters and the story so that readers are in the center of it all.  Anyone who has an interest in the western world should read this one!"

Dr. Clint Unruh, DVM, Colorado Equine Veterinary   Services

 

 

 

 

 
Part 1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHARACTERS

PART 1

Cowboys of the B-Cross-C:

Til Blancett – owner of the “B-Cross”

LG Pendleton – top hand  

Casey Pruitt – top hand

Edwin

Emmanuel – cook

Ira

Lee  

Davis

Steve McGonkin

Rufe McGonkin

Gyp – wrangler (“jigger boss”)

 

The Grand Lake Gang:

Bill Ewing

Vincent (“Judas Furlong”)

Granger

“Ned Tunstall” (Charley Crouse)

Poqito

Caverango

Will Wyllis

Lem

 

The Grand Lake Posse:

Griff Allen – deputy sheriff

Ben Leavick – mercantile store owner

Roy Caldwell – owns apothecary

Red Creek Mincy – Civil War veteran

Merle Hastings – ranch don

 

Other citizens of Grand Lake:

Sheriff Emerson Greer

Caroline Greer – Emerson's wife

Bonnie Allen – Deputy Griff Allen's wife

Meggy Leavick – Ben Leavick's wife

 

People of Ward
:

Julianna

Josephine

Prescott Sloan – banker

Hugh Hughes – owner & operator of The Halfway House

Jim Everitt – stage driver

Ian Mitchell – rides shotgun for the stage

Mr. James – the telegrapher

Zeke – farrier/blacksmith

Chapter 1

Colorado

Continental Divide

April 1887

 

Griff shivered. He knew Emerson wasn't happy about all this. On one hand, the snow gave them hoofprints to follow. Tracking bank jackers in the backcountry was tougher when the ground was just pine needles and dirt. They already had one tied to the pack mule — at least something to show for it all. On the other hand, by the time they made it back to Grand Lake and dumped him in the jailhouse the snow might melt down and tracking would be unprofitable.

There was a groan from the direction of the pack mule. Their prisoner was face-down across the animal's back and a long string of slobber trailed from his mouth. It had dribbled and frozen down the mule's side.

“Well, dern Em,” Griff said with a glance to the sky. “Mebbe we should head on back then.”

The sky was a gray ceiling, right over the treetops. Looking up at it, the lanky dark pines seemed to be pointing out the problem. Snow tufts were just starting to float around them. Big white flakes, light as the air.

“Either somebody spilt a sack full of cotton,” Griff went on. “Or else that's snowin'.”

Emerson Greer never looked up at the sky once. He knew the sun was gone and the clouds were low and snow was in the air. He also knew it was better to head back. He just wanted to give the chase a fair shake.

“Know I winged one,” Emerson said quietly. “Got his arm purty good.”

In addition to the horse tracks, Emerson kept noting drips of cherry red blood. Not hard to see in the snow. But hard to see in the dark. And it was almost dark. And the temperature was dropping pretty quick. Even the stalwart Emerson Greer wasn't immune to the cold. He was wearing his heavy winter coat and thick wooly gloves. His hat kept the snow off his neck.

He looked back at Griff.

“Shoot, let's call it.”

They were up near treeline. The forest was thinning out. The tracks led upslope onto the talus and Emerson didn't want to head up into the open rocks in the dark, horseback. It was slow going in such difficult terrain. Snowy rocks meant slickery footing, and a horse with a twisted hock would be a chore.

Emerson stopped his horse and sighed. He hated turning back. The sun would be out tomorrow and melt most of this off. Tracks would melt out, too, but he couldn't do anything more about that. They weren't provisioned for a long haul — plus they had one of them anyway.

“Those ki-yotes are probably making for Kinsey City.”

“Mebbe they will,” Griff agreed. “Get collared by the very men they stoled from.”

Emerson Greer was the Grand County sheriff. While Griff was his deputy and friend, there was still an etiquette to decision making. Griff knew five miles back the pursuit wasn't likely to pan out. Since Emerson shot one of them in the arm, the men they were chasing were burdened with a wounded man and were likely heading for a safe place to hole up. Their tracks seemed to indicate that, too. However many there were, four or five perhaps, they were headed in a crow's line and weren't taking any breaks.

“Well, then,” Griff nodded. He turned his horse and started back.

The pack mule's lead line was tied to his own saddle. The mule was responsive and followed without any nipping or pulling. He was a good mule — Kodiak was his name. Some trapper from up north sold him to Griff a couple years back. It was anybody's guess why he got that name. He wasn't mean, and Kodiak was sure-footed and confident on any trail. On occasion, Griff's wife Bonnie made carrot cakes. Griff inwardly wished those occasions were far more infrequent. Bonnie wasn't a good cook, especially when it came to sweets. Her most tasteless enterprise was her carrot cake. But Kodiak liked them. Griff always made sure to smuggle several slices out to the barn whenever Bonnie was out visiting — made it disappear from the pantry quicker.

“Untie me, you fools.”

Griff glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

“Sure thing, boss,” he said with a wink to Emerson.

The sheriff stepped his horse up by the mule.

“What's your name?” Emerson asked him.

“Bill,” Bill said.

He slurped a bit — his chin was cold, since frozen spit was caked all over it. Bill twisted as best he could but the best he could see was Emerson's tapadero.