Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (11 page)

“Mose is a grizz,” Steve explained. “Prob'ly the last one in South Park.”

“We ain't
in
South Park,” Edwin stated.

“Damn straight, and good thing we're not,” Steve replied. “That grizz been eatin' cowboys…upwards of, well, since the '60s I suppose. Before any of us was born, except maybe Ira here.”

“Ain't no grizzly out here,” Edwin said contemptuously. “You're stupid, Ira. LG's just playing a gag on us and like a simpleton you fell for it.”

“Now, you heard about poor Jake Radcliffe,” Steve cautioned. “That was just three years ago.”

“No, I ain't heard of no Jake Radcliffe,” Edwin replied.

Steve's face got serious.

“Ain't fooling. Radcliffe went after that ol' bear, all around Black Mountain. Tracked him for ten days straight.”

“Got et up,” Ira added.

“Just about,” Steve said. “Clawed up bad. Took him down to the Mulock ranch — the IM. Sent for the doc…but the man didn't live that long.”

Edwin rode silently. He shifted his eyes toward the dark trees.

“Kilt near 800 head o' cattle,” Steve said and nodded thoughtfully. “Well, over the years.”

A few snowflakes pittered past.

“Well, look at me all puckered!”

Edwin's sharp laugh was meant to convey sarcasm and bravado. But it was pretty thin.

“Gonna shit me a penny.”

 

Chapter 18

South of Beaver Creek

 

Except for Bit Ear, who was a faithful and rather stoic quarterhorse, Til was his own company. A thin crust of fresh snow made following the path difficult. It was barely more than a deer trail to begin with. The bay's hoofs broke through the crust with each step, making a loud gritty sound in the stillness.

The shadows got deeper as the evening settled in, which made the trail even harder to see. Ever since the sun went down, Til had not seen any wildlife. But that was no surprise. With this spring storm passing through, most of the forest critters were surely waiting it out.

“Bedded down or holed up,” Til told the big bay. “Which is where we ought to be.”

He reached down and patted Bit Ear's neck several times. The smell of damp horseflesh was strong. A chilly fog had begun to roll in, too. The treetops soared up overhead and were lost in the mist and the fading light.

Sitting up straight, Til yawned. He wiggled his toes inside his boots to get the circulation going.

Two thousand head did not constitute a large herd, but it was a decent size. And it was all he had at the moment. Til knew he could cut out the yearlings and two-year olds, continue to graze them at the Wyoming pasture. It wasn't too far away from Cheyenne, and he could be at the railyards in a matter of an hour or two. It was far more convenient than Beaver Creek, but then Beaver Creek was just the high summer grazing pasture. Normally the cattle he took up there, stayed up there until fall. With the market in such a bad state, this was not a normal season. He knew he would get a top price. But he had to be in the right place at the right time to get it. He was racing the big cattle companies now, and it was important to lock in all the buyers he could find.

A bat flew right past the crown of his hat, made a choppy turn and flapped off into the gray fog.

“Well there's at least something breathing besides me.”

But the bat did not come back.

The trees opened up, and he found himself in a small alpine meadow. Til had been through here a couple times over the years, but the ground was normally dry enough by then that he could see where the trail went. But given the heavy winter, it was still under snow, and — if he was being honest — Til wasn't even sure where he was. Fir and pine gave way to aspen, and the slim white trunks were evenly spaced. The trail could be anywhere.

Til brought Bit Ear to a standstill.

Scanning the far side of the meadow, Til tried to remember anything familiar. He shivered. When he was not moving, it got cold quick. It was going to be a long dark night, and in these conditions it was not wise to stop for long — even if he knew exactly where he was.

“You figure it out,” he told Bit Ear and urged the bay on with loose reins. His hoofs crunched along the ground as he stepped forward hesitantly.

It soon became obvious the trail was a lost cause.

Til spent a few minutes chewing it over. He knew the general lay of the land well enough. He was travelling down a forested gully, so really there was only one way to go. Plus, the stars would be visible once it got dark enough — if this fog would just lift.

The aspen grove petered out, and he was soon surrounded by evergreen again. The snowbanks got deep where the trees grew close together, especially on the north-facing slopes.

Til was wet from getting sleeted on back at Beaver Creek. The fog didn't help. The sunlight was gone now, although he could tell there must be a sliver of a moon somewhere up above. He wore his thick sheepskin coat — which was helpful — and even had a special pair of fur-lined gloves he bought off a trapper several seasons back.

Bit Ear kept moving along at a slow walk. They worked through the underbrush and tree trunks, past granite outcroppings and boulders. Whenever he felt pine needles rake across the brim of his hat, Til ducked low in the saddle. More than once, he nearly lost a kneecap when the big bay pressed on between tree trunks. If he hadn't been wearing thick angora chaps, he would have.

The terrain curved steeply downhill. Descending slowly in the darkness, Til continued to let the bay have his head. He always chose Bit Ear for journeys that ran late — he was a reliable night horse.

Looking rather ghostly in the fog and moonlight, Til could make out a white line somewhere up ahead. He thought it might be a stream. The slope steepened and he leaned back with it. The saddle leather creaked.

The white line grew wider as he got closer. Soon, it was right in his path. That was odd. Til was expecting to hear running water the closer he got — but it was silent.

The forest was black all around him. The fog was thinning.

Sliding down the last few steps heavily, the bay stepped out onto hard-packed ground. The white line was not a creek after all. It was a stage road, glowing softly in the silvery moonlight.

It was a welcome sight. Til knew exactly where he was now.

Collecting his reins with certainty, he pointed Bit Ear down the road. Ward was only a few more miles away. The road was fairly straight and stretched on into the night. As he lost elevation, the fog kept thinning until it was gone. In what little moonlight he had, Til noticed wheel tracks in the thin snow. There were also hoof prints and spats of manure. The road was well-traveled and just being on it made it seem like there were people around. In a big forest in the middle of a cold night, even Til could appreciate the feeling that he wasn't alone.

Another hour passed before he caught the unmistakable scent of woodsmoke. The road made a twisty curve and the trees thinned enough he could see the eastern horizon.

He knew Ward was right down there. He had made it.

Most of the homes he passed were tucked back in the trees. They were all dark.

The stage road led right through downtown Ward. The Haw & Gee Saloon was the only place open. The door was closed but light shined brightly through the windows. Til decided he was too tired to stop for even a cup of coffee. He went straight to the livery barn between the Halfway House and the corrals. The aisle door was sealed up tight. He pulled it open and led his horse inside.

Til put Bit Ear in an empty stall, then double checked the aisle door. On a cold night, just closing up the barn trapped in the body heat of all the animals. It kept everything warm inside.

As soon as Til closed the door, he lost the moonlight. He untacked and groomed the bay by touch. Taking the saddle and Navajo blanket with him, Til walked blindly down the pitch-dark aisle. The hay was easy to find. He could smell it. He set his saddle down against the wall. His Navajo blanket was damp with horse sweat, so he draped it over a beam. Til spread out his bedroll in the hay stack, but before he laid down he took an armful of hay back for Bit Ear.

 

Chapter 19

Mining Camp

Continental Divide

 

Someone upslope slipped. Stones skittered past Bill's head and rolled off into the darkness. He took a deep breath, gripping the rope even tighter. The last thing Bill needed was to get cracked in the skull because one of those fools kicked a rock loose. If he slipped, he wouldn't stop until he hit the ice pooled at the bottom of the shaft. He knew there was ice, because he had just pushed an unlucky miner down here a few hours earlier.

“Get that light near me.”

Bill's voice echoed. Granger edged down the slope so he could get close to Bill. He held the lamp up high. Shadows danced along the walls.

“A lot warmer in here than up on that damn ridge,” Granger said.

Bill's eyes glistened in the harsh light. He reached up to the lantern knob and adjusted the wick where he wanted it. Granger irritated him. If the man was going to stick the lamp in his face, he could at least turn it down a bit.

Granger could tell Bill was irritated. He tried to keep the lantern as steady as he could. It was hard to hold onto the rope and the lantern at the same time. The mine shaft was steep, too, like a ramp.

“Welcome to nest,” Bill suggested.

Just below, Bill could tell the floor leveled out. He scooted down the slope until he could stand upright safely. Barely ten steps across, the shaft dropped abruptly straight down. Granger came down awkwardly. He slid the last few feet down the slope. Shadows flickered all over the place.

“Watch it!” Bill warned him. “Don't bump me.”

He knelt down and examined the wall. He had brought along a pickax from the cabin. He spotted a convenient cleft and chipped away to make it wider.

Ned came down the rope and stood by Granger, watching Bill work. Bill glanced up at him.

“This'll do.”

Ned put his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. Lem and Will Wyllis started making their way down the shaft. They brought down two heavy saddle bags. It was all the gold they stole from the Kinsey City bank. Bill sighed. He wished they had stolen paper cash money instead. Gold was too heavy to ride far with. And he suspected the sheriff Vincent shot was most likely dead by then. That meant there would be lawmen coming. Distance was the most important thing now. And distance meant traveling light.

“Take your time…don't drop them bags!” Bill called, glancing at the dropoff right behind him.

Poqito and Caverango were standing guard up at the mine entrance. Lem and Will each strapped one of the bags around their shoulders so they could hold onto the hemp line with both hands. The bags were very heavy. Neither one of them was overly excited about inching down such a steep tunnel with so much weight tied on. But they did it anyway.

Bill took the lantern and leaned out over the edge. Down there, the mine was flooded and frozen solid. He could see the ice and the dead miner splayed out on the glittery surface. Bill had expected the miner to tumble a hundred feet or more — but the poor fellow just thumped onto solid ice twenty feet down. Oh well, Bill thought. He's dead and that'll do.

Lem and Will finally made it down with the bulky saddle bags. Bill held the lantern high so everyone could see. There wasn't much room for all five of them. Crouching side by side, Lem and Will pushed the bags inside as far as they would go.

“Cover them up,” Bill instructed.

Using their hands, they scooped up pebbles and grit, and heaped in all the dirt. They could hear the wind pick up again outside, roaring past the entrance.

“Here you go,” Bill said and handed the lantern back to Granger. “Lem, bring that ax.”

Grabbing onto the rope, Bill hauled himself up the slope, hand over hand. Ned followed, then Granger went up. Lem went next with the pickax tucked in his belt. Will was the last one — he hated being last. It was spooky watching the lamp float up the tunnel. It was pitch dark without it. Plus there was that dead miner right down there. Will did not like caves. He did not like train tunnels and now mine shafts were on the list. His chest felt tight. He was starting to breathe heavily. If he slipped even once, he would slide right on down that hole with nothing to stop him.

“Alright, then,” Bill said as he passed Poqito and Caverango. “Bring it down.”

Bill moved out into the night and turned around to face the mine entrance, enjoying his new buffalo coat. It was perfect for weather like this. All the boys were envious when they saw him wearing it.

Ned came out of the mine, then Granger — Bill had given him the lantern on purpose, in case there might be a shooter waiting for them. Bill watched him closely for a minute but no shot came. Lem gave the pickax to Caverango and hustled towards the cabin. He wanted out of the wind.

Will Wyllis felt a great sense of relief. Dark places made him antsy. The whole time he was clawing up the rope, chills kept afflicting his spine. The first thing he did when he walked outside was to plant himself next to Granger — just to be near the kerosene flame.

Bill observed Will and shook his head. Will was not smart, standing so close to the gun bait.

The Mexicans began pulling and chopping at the support beams which framed the entrance.

“Glad to see everything stands in our favor,” Ned mentioned to Bill.

“Let's go inside and get warm,” Bill said.

They headed across the snowy talus. Bill was glad for the wind. It was strong enough to carry away any sounds they were making. Bringing down support timbers was a noisy business. On a calm day, the sound of a pickax striking stone could carry for quite a distance. Plus, it was such unfavorable weather, he suspected that if anyone
was
tracking them, they were likely cozied up in a warm cabin of their own.