Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (20 page)

“Oh, no.”

Ben's face was red. It was hard to stand by watching when he knew the men they were after couldn't be far away. The question was, did they ride down the canyon? Or did they turn up Spring Gulch? There were fresh horse tracks leading back up the gulch — but it also looked like a whole herd of horses had ridden on down the road. There were hoofprints and fresh heaps of dark green horse manure everywhere he looked. They could have gone either way. Even Red Creek Mincy was not sure, and he had years of tracking experience.

“What can you remember?” Griff asked Casey.

He opened his eyes and stared at Edwin and Ira.

“Someone called Charley Crouse,” Casey said, trying to think. “But some other fella kilt my friends, though. And a couple vaqueros…they all stood right there.”

Griff shot a glance at Merle Hastings. They both recognized the name Charley Crouse, by reputation. Griff was sure the man was a horse racer, but he lived way up north in Brown's Park somewhere. What was he doing down here?

“Where's LG?” Casey asked them. He looked up and down the road. The stagecoach was still sitting where it had been. It was all coming back.

“Couple more around there, I'm afraid,” Griff said, nodding toward the coach.

Casey got to his feet again. He had a sick feeling in his stomach. Heading slowly toward the coach, Casey prayed it wasn't LG or anyone else from the B-Cross. But Ira and Edwin were both dead, right back there. Who else would it be?

Julianna walked behind him, and noticed there was blood all over his back. They all followed him around the coach. Griff pointed out the stage drivers and Lem.

“Don't know these men,” Casey said, relieved.

“I know these two,” Julianna spoke up quietly. “That's Jim Everitt and that's Ian Mitchell. They work the stage line.”

“So this other one…he ain't part of the cow outfit and don't work for the stage,” Merle said, using the toe of his boot to roll Lem over. “Got to be one of the gang we're after.”

Nodding, Griff scratched his chin and throat — he had several days of growth, and it was starting to irritate his skin. He looked up at the sky. The sun was going down. It was hanging just above the snow-covered peaks but as soon as it fell behind the ridge, it would start getting dark again. Griff looked around at everyone. Ben was impatient to be off and could barely stand still. Roy was clearly shocked by all this death and was sitting quietly in his wagon. Red Creek was unfazed, and stared cooly at Griff for direction. Merle went over to his ranch hands and began quietly instructing them to be wary and calm. They were young and obviously unsettled by all this. Griff had seen his share of death and knew what it felt like when you hadn't seen it before.

Griff turned to Julianna.

“Can you cook supper for a dozen hungry men?”

“I can and will, happily…as long as there is a bite left,” she replied. “My home is just down the road a little further, in Gold Hill.”

It was a decision that would not sit well with everyone, Griff knew that. The gang they were after had less than an hour's headstart. However, trying to tell which direction they rode was going to be hard. The ground was a criss-cross mess of horse and cattle tracks. Also, there was the problem of the dead cowhands. The posse could not simply ride off, as things stood. Griff believed in the importance of propriety and doing things right. After all, as a deputy he represented order and the good of society. Lawless men had the luxury of transgression — Griff did not.

“We need to bury these men.”

Ben's face looked like it was going to burst, but he turned around and stalked off instead. Griff watched him go. None of them wanted to give up yet. But looking at Casey and Julianna and all the dead men on the ground, not to mention four mules standing in their traces — Griff decided it was the right thing to do. Then they could see what the morning might bring.

 
 

Chapter 45

 

Rufe rode back up Spring Gulch. He held onto one of the reins from his brother's horse. Steve was hunched over, gripping the saddle horn as tight as he could. After an hour of riding, they passed the last few cows in the herd, and almost collided with Lee and Davis.

“What happened?”

“Been waylaid!” Rufe shouted, without slowing down. “The herd's broke — forget them damn cows!”

Lee and Davis had heard the gunshots echo off the hills. Lee counted seven shots but Davis counted eight. They were arguing about it when Rufe and Steve came crashing through the underbrush.

The McGonkins wove through the pine and were gone.

Lee looked back down the gulch. The last few steers in the herd were plodding on slowly in the warm sunlight. A squirrel was up in a ponderosa chirping angrily at them. In the quiet and sunshine, Lee was confused. It felt wrong to abandon the herd. But Steve was dripping blood all over his horse's withers, and Rufe had certainly looked frazzled.

“What do we do?” Davis asked him.

Looking up and down the gulch, Lee wondered himself. What would LG say? What would he tell them to do?

 

Chapter 46

 

In the pitch dark, Emmanuel walked carefully so he would not trip and spill the coffee.

“Here you go,” Emmanuel whispered and held out a steaming cup to Davis.

“Much appreciated.”

Davis could barely make out Emmanuel in the dark. The black man was nearly invisible. He propped his rifle against an aspen. He cupped his hands around the mug and let it warm his fingers.

Emmanuel had been riding behind the drags that morning. Getting the chuckwagon down Spring Gulch was not easy. The trail they were following was barely a footpath, if even that — and the trees grew so close he wasn't sure he was going to make it. When Rufe frantically rode past the wagon with his brother in tow, Emmanuel wasted no time turning around.

Having spent his early years in the army, he knew how to doctor wounds. He always kept calomel, castor oil, bandages, needles and thread, and a good supply of whiskey in the cookbox. Once they got back to Preacher's Glen, he did what he could for Steve.

Moonlight made everything that was white waver in the dark like phantoms — aspen bark glowed, the snow on the ground lit up. Davis was just a dark shadow himself. The only way he knew Emmanuel was headed in his direction, was the flour sack around his waist bobbed like a will o' wisp.

After wrestling with it, both Lee and Davis had made the decision to leave the cattle and ride after the McGonkins. When they got to the glen, they found Emmanuel setting up camp right where they had the night before. Steve was in pain but conscious, and Rufe was agitated and couldn't sit still.

It was strange. They could smell the cow manure in the meadow all around them — but the herd was not there, of course. Davis took a quick sip and worked his jaw.

“Singy. Mebbe in an hour this'll be ingestible.”

“You just keep readin' that dictionary,” Emmanuel told him.

The cook turned and headed back towards the campfire. He had barely gone five steps when a gunshot went off in the trees.

Emmanuel dropped like a stone.

The gunshot echoed up and down the glen like thunder. Davis dropped his coffee mug and grabbed his rifle. He pointed it into the woods but it was too dark to see. He waited for another shot — the discharge would give him a target. But nothing happened.

He smelled gunsmoke wafting in the dark.

“Lee?” he whispered.

“Yeah.”

“See where that came from?”

“Nope.”

At the firepit, Rufe scrambled out of his bedroll, grabbed his gun and leapt behind a log. Steve was in no shape to move so he stayed where he was, lying flat on the ground.

The forest was silent. Even the crickets had stopped.

The fire crackled. It was down to a hot bed of coals and cast a deep reddish glow. A few steps from the fire and the night closed in. The crescent moon was out again, although a thin layer of clouds filled the sky. All the stars were gone.

Emmanuel got up and hustled for the wagon.

Another shot rang out. The gunfire was quite visible in that moment and without hesitation both Lee and Davis fired at it. Their own muzzle flashes were bright like lightning.

Emmanuel slipped and hit the ground near the fire, landing hard with a grunt. He did not stay there this time but got right up, scampering behind the first tree he could find. He realized the flour sack was glowing in the moonlight. No wonder they were shooting at him. He untied it and threw it on the ground.

The afterclaps were loud. After the sound faded, they heard a loud voice carry in the dark:

“That Negro's still flopping. You bean-eaters can't shoot worth shit.”

 

Chapter 47

The Commodore's Cabin

Gold Hill

 

“Obliged, miss.”

Merle nodded politely and accepted the ceramic plate. He sat back in his chair and placed it carefully on the tabletop. It was heaped with pan-fried trout, deer meat, fresh greens and syrupy canned pears.

The Commodore had not been able to shoot even one squirrel, as he had anticipated, so he spent the afternoon fishing in the creek. The catch of trout had come in useful. Julianna also had the groceries and supplies she purchased in Ward — and with the dried venison from the pantry, she was able to bring together a decent meal. She only hoped The Commodore would be able to maintain his composure and behave. She was worried. He did not get along well with unexpected company. Or any company, for that matter.

“This is all quite unexpected, and favorable,” Roy Caldwell told her appreciatively. He seemed indecisive about which knee to lay his cloth napkin on. Living in the apothecary alone, his familiarity with supper table etiquette was rusty. In addition to this, he was feeling skittish in the presence of the young lady. The only ladies who entered the apothecary were either matronly or sickly — or both, usually.

Red Creek took his plate and stepped outside. Juilanna watched him go…privately relieved the man with the dead fish eyes was no longer in her home.

“He don't do well with enclosed spaces, ma'am,” Griff explained, misunderstanding her look.

That is fine with me, she thought.

Merle's ranch hands were spread out in the room, sitting on whatever they could find — crate, footstool, hearth, wash bucket. Since they were the youngest of the group, it went without saying the grown men would sit at the table. Griff, Merle, Roy and Ben sat across from Julianna and her father — who looked leathery, feral and permanently windblown. They gave Casey the most comfortable chair in the room. It was the only one that had a seat cushion. He barely touched his meal. He mainly stared into the fire.

The large stone fireplace was roaring. Elk and deer horns and fox pelts were stacked in piles against the back wall. There were several old steel traps and a set of snowshoes hanging from nails. Griff looked around. He saw a gold-handled saber up on the fireplace mantle and glanced curiously at The Commodore.

“Sorrowful affair,” Merle said, while Julianna finished serving supper.

“This is a heinous crew,” Roy stated. “Leaving a kill streak all the way from Grand Lake to Boulder.”

“For shit's sake,” Ben Leavick muttered bitterly, and none too softly. He forked up a piece of deer meat and held it up. “Sheriff Emerson Greer is gutshot and dead. Now all these cowhands are murdered and here we are enjoying a fancy meal and a warm bed.”

“Watch your language — we have a lady here,” Griff warned, and looked apologetically at Julianna. She sat quietly, sipping hot tea.

“I seem to remember them knocking around our good deputy, as well. Why ain't you up in arms like I am? Why ain't we out on their trail right this very second?
We had ‘em
, boys. We were
right there
. Now those murderers are halfway to Burlington!”

Merle cleared his throat and wiped his mustache with his fingertips. His ranch hands watched uneasily, chewing their food. Griff thought they looked quite similar to barn owls.

“If I may,” Merle began, clearing his throat again. “We do not deny the rascality of that troupe. But they've led us far afield. And we've just gone and buried how many good folk?”

He looked around the room with a challenging look in his eye.

“Now their sign has been obscured by them Polangus. I can't make nothing out. Even in the morning light we won't know which way they went. Up that gulch or down the road? Them curly wolfs might have even split up and went
both
ways, for all we can tell. Like they did when they took
you
for a loop, Leavick.”

Ben glared back but did not interrupt.

“We should consider our options,” Merle said, pausing thoughtfully. “And obligations.”

But that was too much for Ben. He dropped his fork on his plate with a loud clank.

The barn owls turned their heads toward the sound.

“Holy hell! Options?
Obligations?
What kind of talk is this, Griff?”
 

“It's real talk,” Merle said sternly. “Real wives and real children and real business to attend. And God only knows if they're heading back up that way right now. May be doubling back to shoot up our town while we're looking the wrong way.”

“Well, I'll be,” Roy said and nodded.

Merle frowned severely. He leaned forward in his chair to convey the gravity of his words.

“Our wives and children are sitting up there…without
us
to defend them.”

Ben's face was dark. He pounded the tabletop, making all the dishes clatter. It startled Julianna who jumped in her seat. Griff saw her jump, and pointed sharply at Ben.

“I feel it ever
bit
as you do, Ben! I worked close with the man for years, if you will remember.”

Then Griff sighed, set his elbows on the table and rubbed his eyes.