Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (10 page)

“How hard is it to just listen?”

Vincent watched calmly. He removed his gloves and began massaging the circulation back into his chilled fingertips. The wind kept sweeping over the ridge in cold bursts, and with each gust Vincent tucked his face deep into his neck scarf.

“If I say ride into Fort Smith and ‘fess up to Judge Parker himself, you'll by God do it. And if I say ride hard to the bayous of Alabamy and wrastle a gator, you'll by God do that.”

Giving his ear a final shake, Bill let go. Granger got right up to his feet, pressed his hand over the ear and stalked off across the talus without a word.

“Well damn, Bill,” Vincent said with a light chuckle.

Bill shrugged casually. He could barely make out Granger moving across the rocks, heading toward the two Mexicans and their mule.

“How's that arm healing up?”

Poqito and Caverango were again trying to get the mule to move, to drag the little pine up the last few feet into the cabin — but the mule had planted itself firmly. He was determined to go down into the forest instead. Caverango tugged at the halter. Poqito quirted him.

“Aw, barely pains me — merely an irritant.”

Vincent was lying. It hurt terribly, but he was not going to say that to Bill.

Up above them on the stony slope was a small mining camp. Someone had built a little cabin with one window. At the moment, it was dark and silent. The door was standing open. Granger still cupped a hand over his tweaked ear. He went straight up to the two men fighting with the mule.

“Drag that log in there! Now!” Granger demanded.

They glanced quickly at each other, uneasily. Granger was angry with them, they could tell, but they were not sure why. It was dark enough that they couldn't see much of his face. Granger waited for them to say something in response, to argue or complain — he wanted an excuse. But neither one spoke. They both stood there looking at him blankly. Granger glared at Caverango, who was closest, and threw a punch. Caverango's head popped back and he collapsed among the big rocks. Poqito leapt at Granger, but Granger kicked out the smaller man's feet. Poqito fell down next to Caverango, yelling out in pain. The rock was sharp and loose.

Pulling open his overcoat, Granger gripped his Colt by the handle. The two Mexicans waved their arms pacifically. Bill was watching the whole thing in the dim light. For the most part, he did not care if the men fought. There was nothing wrong with a little fisticuffs now and again. But he certainly did not need Granger shooting the Mexicans. They were still in the process of hauling the scrubby pine up to the cabin. The wind was getting stronger and colder by the minute and they needed a fire as quickly as possible.

“No you don't!” Bill yelled. “Don't you shoot them. Get that fire going, you hear me?”

Granger looked hard at Caverango, then over at Bill. He let go of the gun handle and pulled his coat tight again. The wind picked up. They all leaned into it and held on to their hats. Granger hustled through the cabin door, disappearing inside.

“Our wind block is volatile,” Bill said, referring to Granger.

“When the wind stops, we won't need a wind block anymore.”

“That is true.”

They made their way carefully across the talus and angled up to the dark cabin. They passed Poqito, who was rubbing one elbow gingerly. Caverango was back on his feet. He had resumed tugging at the mule's halter. They said nothing to Bill as he passed by.

Walking through the open doorway, Bill nearly tripped over a sprawled body. It was a dead miner.

“Would you drag this out of the way, at least far enough so we can close the damn door?” Bill scolded Granger, who was seated at a square table in the middle of the room.

“It bothers me that you don't think of these things by yourself.”

“Jail's made you ornery,” Granger told him sullenly.

He got up from the table and grabbed the dead man's wrists. He dragged the body further inside and closed the door. It was dim inside the cabin. Vincent found a lantern hanging on a nail. He struck a match and got it going. The only furniture in the room was the square table and four hand-built chairs. He set the lantern on the table, then settled into Granger's chair before he could sit down again.

“Could have gone the other way with it,” Vincent told Granger. “Gonna stink in here.”

“Fresh kill don't stank,” Granger replied. “Be gone by the time it does.”

At that moment, Caverango and Poqito opened the door and dragged in the small tree. It left long white scrape marks across the wooden floorboards. They dropped the root end into the fireplace.

Poqito took a hatchet and whacked off the limbs. The tree had long since died — the wood was dry and ready to burn. He was pleased they finally got it up the rocky slope despite all the problems with the disagreeable mule, the bitter wind, and Granger.

“Don't stink?” Vincent asked him. “You kidding me? When a man is shot dead, he shats himself.”

Granger stared at him angrily. He was getting sick of Vincent's talk. All that man did was criticize him, no matter what was going on.

“I
know
they shat themselves.”

“You a killer, Granger?” Vincent asked. “Because a killer would know they shat themselves.”

“Boys, boys,” Bill cautioned. He took a seat at the table and began checking the loads on his gun.

In a lull between gusts, Bill heard the mule whinny. He got up and moved quickly to the window. The clouds were streaming across the sky and the moon came in and out. He caught sight of three people riding up out of timberline. It was hard to make them out — the riders were indistinct in the gloom. But Bill easily recognized the tall white stockings on the lead sorrel.

“Well, Ned finally made it,” he said.

Poqito lit a wad of newspaper in the fireplace and sprinkled pine needles over it. While it smoked and caught flame, he paused to rub his bad elbow. He glared over at Granger, but Granger was not looking in his direction.

The tree trunk was much too long for the fireplace. It stuck out from the hearth halfway across the room, one end resting on the rug by the table. As the night wore on and the trunk started burning down, they could inch it further into the fireplace. This was much better than wasting the time to saw it into sections.

 

Chapter 16

Ward

General Merchandise

 

Standing at the window, Julianna was uneasy.

“Miss, there is a room available at Hugh's,” the man said. “Or you are welcome to spend the hours across the way. Hammet's Theatre is open. They got a Negro minstrel lineup. Be strummin' till the sunrise.”

Julianna held her shawl close, cupping a hand to the window so she could see through the thick glass. She sighed quietly and turned away. It was dark outside and she was not going to drive the buckboard home after dark on such a cold night.

“Thank you for thinking of my well-being,” she said politely.

The owner of the General Merchandise was Terrance Tillamook. Terrance Tillamook was a husky middle-aged man whose hair was salt and pepper gray.

“My wife would ream me if I did not think to ask,” he mentioned kindly.

“It would be the ruination of you,” his wife Joyetta said, her voice carrying authoritatively. She had just appeared from the stock room. “Weather and chill! Traveling at this hour in the cold? No, no, no.”

“Thank you, ma'am. I do concur with good judgment.”

The room was stacked with bags of flour, kegs of lard, dried meats, textiles, fabrics, racks of clothing, blankets, tin cups and plates, iron pots and skillets. Julianna walked slowly back through, stopping at the linens.

The door opened, and Josephine stepped inside the store. She looked around the room until she caught sight of Julianna's brown hair.

“
There
you are!”

Julianna ignored her. She pretended to examine the colorful linens. Josephine came over and joined her at the fabric rack. A salmon-colored silk caught her eye.

“This would make beautiful drapes for my kitchen. Don't you think?”

She glanced at Julianna, who was ignoring her.

“Come with me,” Josephine pleaded in a regretful tone.

Julianna set her jaw but allowed the other woman to link arms and lead her out the door.

Through the big storefront window, Terrance and Joyette Tillamook watched them go.

“I wonder if she wants that salmon silk or not?” Joyette asked.

“If she wanted it, she would have bought it.”

“Now, Terrance, maybe she would like me to set it aside for when she comes back.”

“She didn't say anything of the sort. And what if someone else walks in lookin' for salmon silk?”

Josephine and Julianna walked down Main Street. The road was situated on a steep hill and in the evening hours it could be difficult to navigate on foot. The wheel ruts were lost in the shadows and it was easy to trip. There was light shining from the various businesses they passed: the Halfway House, the Miser's Brewery, Ezekiel's Blacksmith & Farrier Shop, Hammet's Theatre, the telegraph office.

Looking out over the forested hills around Ward, they could see all the lanterns and lighted windows scattered about in the darkness. There were only a few electric lights in Ward, and only the more prosperous businesses had them. All of the residential homes relied on lanterns and candles. Julianna still liked the homey glow of a natural flame. She thought the electric lights, though progressive, gave her a hollow feeling. She was still feeling hollow from all the sour dinner table talk.

“Samuel wants to move us to Horseshoe,” Josephine mentioned.

Julianna gave her a side-glance.

“What? Why?” she asked.

Josephine sniffed indifferently.

“They just opened the Hilltop Mine. Samuel thinks his claim is all played out here.”

The two women walked along quietly. The wind was swishing gently through the treetops and there was a little snow in the air.

They passed the Haw & Gee Saloon and could hear people talking and laughing through the open doorway. They even had a piano in there. It was the only one in town. The evening had just begun for a lot of people. Julianna liked Ward. It was a nice town — much bigger than Gold Hill. All her friends lived here. Sometimes she wished she lived here, too.

“He thinks he'll have an easier go. Hears talk about a big chamber inside. They call it the Ice Palace,” Josephine rolled her eyes. “All glittery with mineral.”

As she said it, her voice cracked. Julianna knew she was about to cry.

“Working inside a mountain is different than an open placer on a river,” she continued. “Dirty, dark. Dangerous.”

Julianna listened patiently.

“The mine sits way up top of Mount Sheridan,” Joesphine said sadly. “He won't be coming home for supper every night, I can tell you that.”

The road angled steeply downhill. The noise and bustle of downtown dimmed with distance. Several riders went by in the darkness, hoofsteps clopping loudly.

“Julianna, I am sorry about earlier,” Josephine said softly. “I had no cause to say such things. Family is family.”

“My father's an old Indian fighter,” Julianna pointed out. “Your Samuel mines the earth. No one's what we want them to be. But they are what we need them to be.”

They turned up a small road and stopped at Josephine's front door. It was a small frame house with bright yellow paint and white eaves and evergreens towering on each side. A lantern burned in the main window.

“Life seems to be rushing me,” Josephine said, her voice unsteady.

The women stood quietly in the cold evening air. A few flakes fell on their shoulders and hats.

“Come inside. We'll be eating soon,” Josephine told her. “Please stay. We've got the spare room all ready for you.”

 

Chapter 17

Spring Gulch

 

“Keep an eye out for Ol' Mose.”

LG's voice was solemn. He left it at that. Specter took off and it wasn't long before LG was out of sight in the pine up ahead.

The cattle were strung out in a long line. The herd was slowly winding its way through the trees. Ira and Edwin rode together — Ira had an appaloosa named Berry Picker and Edwin was on a dark bay they just called Dark Bay.

Ira's face crinkled up with the information, but Edwin was confused.

“Now who in the hell is Ol' Mose?” Edwin shouted after LG.

But LG was gone.

Ira became fidgety with this new information. He twisted in the saddle, looking sharply to the left and right. He squinted and stared hard into the forest. It was hard to see very far in the dusky shadows.

Edwin was almost waiting for an explanation, but by this point he knew Ira wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.

“Ira. What on God's green earth is LG talking about now?”

Ira broke from his trance and glanced over.

“Ol' Mose,” he said knowingly, head dipping to add emphasis.

“Yeah, heard that part, dumb-bob.”

“Ain't you heard of Ol' Mose, Edwin?” Ira asked, incredulous.

Ira waited for an answer to his own question but Edwin refused to respond to what he considered a dull query. He merely stared hard at Ira.

“I always thunk Ol' Mose kept his company up on 39-Mile Mountain,” Ira said finally.

Edwin looked back down the line and caught a glimpse of another rider. It was Steve.

“Hey, McGonkin!” Edwin called out loudly. His voice seemed to get absorbed by the forest.

Steve trotted towards them, cutting around the tree trunks to catch up.

“Ira here can't make his words and it's ticking me off squarely.”

“Ol' Mose!” Ira whispered tensely to Steve.

Steve cracked a smile and chuckled to himself.

“Ain't gonna get et tonight, Ira.”

Edwin looked across the cows at Steve expectantly.