Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (15 page)

 It was clear they needed to keep moving, but Bill wanted a hot meal first. It had been a long night, and they were not carrying many supplies. Hugh came by their table and set down plates and coffee cups.

Hugh took their money and went back to the bar. He paused in front of Til, who was still standing. He had remained where he was, standing at the bar while he finished his eggs and beefsteak.

“Ought to sit down to et, Til.”

“Naw. Gonna be in the saddle rest of the day,” Til replied. “This'll do fine.”

“Telegraph's open by now.”

“Hope that wet night we just had don't interfere with the connection any.”

“Just a spring squall,” Hugh said. “Not like we got three feet. That'd bring down the wires for sure.”

The front door opened again. Ian Mitchell and Jim Everitt came inside. Ian carried a double-barreled shotgun. He set it on the bartop, just a few steps from Til.

Vincent and Bill noticed them come in. Who were these two? The posse? Had they gotten there already? That shotgun made Bill uneasy. But they both stayed seated, trying to stay cool and not draw attention to themselves. Vincent and Bill forked their eggs with one hand, while under the table they each took out their .45′s and placed the guns in their laps while they listened to Jim and Ian talk.

“Leaving out this morning?” Hugh asked them.

“Jerk-line's all hitched,” Jim said to Hugh. “Soon as we eat.”

“Down to Gold Hill first, pick up their mail and such,” Ian mentioned. “Why? Something to send along?”

Hugh reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a silver pocketwatch by the chain. He unhooked it and dangled it into Jim's palm.

“When you get to Boulder, just pass this on to John Meeker. Tell him it goes to my sister Lynn.”

“Condolences,” Jim said. “About your father.”

“Means a lot more to her than me,” Hugh informed him. “He was an old cuss. Good to the girls, though. I ain't going to the funeral, but this'll do. Family heirloom — take good care with it.”

Jim Everitt turned it over in his hand. He opened the cover with his thumbnail. Inside was an inscription:
John Frederick Hughes, from Helena your loving wife: Absence from those we love is self from self.
 

“Your last name is Hughes?” he remarked. “Hugh Hughes?”

Hugh stared at him but did not say anything.

“I'll make sure it gets to John Meeker, then.”

Hugh nodded his appreciation.

“Thank you much.”

Jim put the watch into his own vest pocket, patting it securely. Hugh nodded once more, and moved off to check on his other customers. The Chinese men were gesturing, trying to get his attention. They were pointing at their cups.

Julianna and Josephine watched Hugh bring out their coffee.

“Those Chinamen are hard workers, Samuel says,” Josephine mentioned.

She looked around the room. It was still early for the Halfway House. Most mornings were quiet like this, whenever she stopped in for breakfast. A couple tired-looking gamblers came in and took a table. Other than that, it was just Vincent, Bill, Til, and the Chinese miners.

“If there were any Italians in here, we might see a fist fight,” Josephine said. “Samuel tells me they don't get along too well with Chinamen.”

“Why is that?”

“Don't know,” Josephine said with a shrug. “Samuel just says they don't. Guess there are big fights up in Como, in those coal mines. Happens all the time. According to Samuel, Ward is pretty tame.”

 
 

Chapter 27

Spring Gulch

Preacher's Glen

 

The sun was just starting to color the sky. Emmanuel knelt down and blew on the coals to see if he could coax a flame out of it. Morning was Emmanuel's favorite time of day. On the far side of the glen, he watched the moon floating over the Great Divide. The crescent had grown big and turned a rich yellow. It was suspended right over the ridgeline, getting bigger as it inched down. All night long he watched the moon. When he was driving the chuckwagon in the dark he saw it creep up over the trees in front of him, stark white like a fat thumbnail. Up it went, up into the cold windy sky and right over the top of his head. Now here he was, trying to get the fire back up for breakfast. The coals were still glowing and all it took were a few pinches of pine needles. Pine needles always burnt quick, hot and put out thick smoke. He added a few dead branches and the cookfire was going again. That big yellow thumbnail moon was almost touching the snowy ridge — like it was going to land right on top of it.

“Look at that, will you?” LG asked, with his normal wry grin. He pointed up at the ridge. Emmanuel was relieved that LG seemed to be back in a good mood. He had been fairly bent out of shape with the McGonkins. Or the McSpookies, as he called them now.

LG was an early riser no matter how late he stayed up or how little sleep he got. It was his habit to check on the horses as soon as he woke up — he even beat Emmanuel out of the bedroll most mornings.

“That moon gonna sit up on that ridge,” Emmanuel told him.

It was chilly, but Emmanuel could tell it was going to warm up nicely before long. By the wagon, the McGonkins were still buried in their bedrolls. So were Casey and Edwin, and Gyp. Ira was off in the meadow riding the final watch for the night. When Emmanuel first drove the chuckwagon through there, the glen had a perfect layer of fresh snow all across it. It was beautiful in the moonlight. His own wagon tracks were the first thing to cut across it. Now, in the morning light, Emmanuel looked out. The fresh powder was completely churned up from the stampede. It was like a farmer had tilled the whole field.

Davis smelled the smoke. He was wrapped up in his blanket so thoroughly only his nose stuck out. Moving quick, Davis threw off his bedding, grabbed his boots and danced across the cold ground without even taking the time to put them on.

“Hoo hoo!” Davis called, poorly mimicking a train whistle.

Lee watched him go. He was shivering and had been waiting for the fire, too. He sat up, but unlike Davis, took the time to wiggle on his stiff frozen boots.

“What was that supposed to be?” LG asked Davis.

“Locomotive.”

“Don't know why you would stoop to railroad work,” LG asked him, mystified.

“Ferguson ran out of cow work,” Davis told him.

“What's that ol' boy run up there anyhow?”

“Hereford.”

Lee sat on a rock next to Davis and pulled his boots right back off his feet. It was only twenty quick steps from his bedroll to the fire, but Lee was sensitive about his bare feet.

“Ferguson didn't run outta no cow work,” Lee explained with a knowing smile.

LG looked over at Davis, but the man just rubbed his toes and stretched his feet out over the flames.

“Heard about Aspen?” Davis asked LG. “They are blasting railroad grade right up the Roaring Fork even as we speak. Narrow-gauge.”

“These are historic and industrious times,” LG said in a disinterested tone. “Let ‘er buck.”

“Ferguson's got three awful purty daughters,” Lee mentioned.

Davis examined the sole of his foot and picked at a corn.

Casey came up and sat down on a stump. He yawned.

“Wonder what Ferguson would do if one of the hired hands was to court one?” Lee continued thoughtfully. “A barn dance is only a barn dance when other folks are invited.”

Suddenly, Davis reached over and cupped his hand over Lee's mouth. Lee jumped up and spat in the fire.

“Now my mouth tastes like your filthy toe corn.”

LG looked over at the chuckwagon. Emmanuel was working the coffee mill. In the quiet morning, it was easy to hear him scoop coffee beans out and pour them in the mill.

“Grind that thing,” LG called.

Off in the aspen grove, Gyp crawled out from his blankets. The horses saw him, too, and started nickering. Gyp went over to the wagon and dug around in the back. He found the grain pail and headed to the rope corral. There was enough grass to keep the horses busy, but Til gave him specific instructions. He wanted his remuda grained. So Gyp fed them grain every morning.

Steve and Rufe were both awake, but lying silently in their bedrolls. Neither had any interest in going to the fire and being berated. Edwin finally roused himself and came over. He held his hands over the fire.

“I don't see no church,” he pointed out, apropos of nothing. “Why's it called Preacher's Glen if there ain't no church?”

“You need to confess something?” LG asked him. “You can tell me. I'm a peach at keeping secrets.”

To the west, the moon had dropped below the Divide. To the east, the sky was turning a whitish blue as the sun came up.

“There's a preacher up in Estes Park that climbs them mountains,” Lee mentioned.

Edwin glanced over at him curiously.

“Elkanah Lamb. Used to go inside the saloons, Bible in one hand — .45 in the other.”

Ira rode in just then. He brought his horse right up to the fire and stopped. He looked down at LG.

“Cows a-stirring.”

LG glanced back up at him, waiting for more.

“And?”

Shifting in his saddle, Ira looked blank.

Davis was not finished with his story.

“The good reverend used to guide folks right up to the summit of Longs Peak, for five whole dollars. His boy Carlyle is doing it these days.”

“
Guides
them?” Edwin asked, confused. “People pay to climb mountains?”

“Hell, yes. Next season, you should hire onto one of the ranches up there,” Lee told the boy. “I worked for WE James last season — he runs the Elkhorn ranch. You should sign on there yourself…peeling broncs, punching cattle.”

Holding up his fingers, Davis began counting.

“There's five different spreads up in Estes,” he said. “The Fergusons, the Lambs, Spragues, MacGregors, and Jameses.”

Ira realized he was out of the conversation, so he turned his horse around and rode toward the aspen grove. He got down and let his horse nose through the frosty grass. There was no reason to untack his horse since they would be moving again after breakfast was over.

“I heard some Irish lord is buying up all the land,” Casey said.

“The Earl of Dunraven,” said Davis, with a frown. “Locals hate that ol' boy.”

“Thinks high of himself,” Lee explained. “Wants to own the whole dern park. Turn it into his very own private hunting preserve.”

“Going to be trouble before that all pans out.”

Edwin stood up straight, stretching his arms high above his head.

“I ain't interested in working for no damn Earl,” he said with a yawn. “I
am
interested in some damn flapjacks.”

At the chuckwagon, Emmanuel was rooting around the tool box. He hoped they would keep chatting because the coffee mill was bound up.

 

Chapter 28

Ward

 

Their breath blew out in white puffs, but the mules stood quietly and waited in the chilly air.

“Check Bitty's right front,” Jim Everitt said. He worked along the harness buckles, securing them.

Ian Mitchell leaned down and softly pressed his shoulder against Bitty the mule's upper leg — to let her know he was there. Then he brushed his hand down the backside of her knee and fetlock, and took hold of the hoof. Bitty shifted her weight, and Ian lifted her foot off the ground. These mules were bigger than regular horses, some kind of draft cross — he wasn't sure what, though. Ian examined the sole, using a hoof pick to clean it out.

“Shoe's loose.”

“Must of happened o'er night in the corral,” Jim said. “Not like that yesterday.”

Jim removed his hat and scratched his scalp. He walked around the mules and bent down to look it over. Ian held the hoof up so he could see.

“Have to pull it,” Jim decided. “Tack it back on again.”

“Either do it ourselves,” Ian suggested slowly. “Or we traipse on over and get Hugh to pack us up some steak cuts…while someone else does.”

Standing up tall, Jim stretched and groaned at the thought of horseshoeing on a chilly morning — in the shade nonetheless.

“My back
has
been rather tangy.”

The men looked at each other.

“I'll get the farrier.”

Gently, Ian set Bitty's hoof back down. The sun was high enough now to light up the top of the Halfway House. It was still early and still cold but smoke was already pumping out of the chimney. Jim headed down Main Street towards the blacksmith shop. Ian watched him go and began the process of getting Bitty out of the team. He removed her headstall and bit, undid the traces, and led her out from behind the singletree.

“He could have noticed this sort of thing
prior
to tacking up,” Ian told Bitty in a tart whisper.
 

He led the big mule away from the stagecoach and tied her to a hitching post. The other mules watched closely, with their big ears perked up and listening. They wondered if grain was somehow involved in this turn of events. Ian rubbed her on the neck.

“Which one of these hambones was bothering you, huh Bitty?”

Bitty turned her large head and looked back at the other mules, which were still traced up.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Ian said, following her gaze. “Buckshay…you wild ass. Let her alone.”

A couple cowhands passed by and saw him talking to the mules. It was young Billy McCoy and his little brother Bobby.

“Mornin', Jehu,” Billy McCoy said rather snidely.

“Scamper off, you skunks.”

They laughed and went into the Halfway House. Ian shook his head. The McCoy boys had little in the way of social graces. Last time he drove through Ward, someone shoveled steaming horse turds inside the coach. Got the mail all cruddy. He suspected the McCoy brothers.