Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (22 page)

“
Perdon
,” he whispered and tip-toed off.
 

He heard Charley chuckle behind him, somewhere in the darkness. Caverango paused to listen — he thought he heard a jagged knife being
swished
out of a sheathe. He began moving quicker to keep from being gutted like the Speckled Nigger. He extended both hands out and patted around in the darkness.

Tree trunk.

Tree trunk.

Brush.

Pine branch.

The further he got, the more relaxed Caverango became. Perhaps he would not get jabbed after all. He lamented silently for poor Poqito. Poqito was still back there, standing with Charley. Unless he reached a similar conclusion and had the good sense to
sneak off in the night. Caverango wondered about it. Maybe Poqito
had
reached a similar conclusion. He sure hoped so. If they both got away tonight, they could break off from this gang. After all, there was a posse on their trail — and the posse was mainly looking for Bill and Vincent. They probably weren't even aware that Caverango and Poqito were riding with the gang. The two of them might even ride openly in the daylight, passing themselves off as regular vaqueros looking for work.
 

Between the tree trunks, Caverango spotted the soft orange glow of the campfire. He smelled the burning wood before he saw it. These gringos must not be anticipating any danger, he thought, or they would not have lit a fire. Caverango would never have lit a fire if his compañeros had just been bushwhacked and shot down. He would have ridden far away at once.

A gun went off and Caverango dropped to his knees. The rapport was loud. He held his breath. It had come from back behind him, where Charley and Poqito were — not from one of the
caballeros
up ahead. It came from behind. Close behind. He could smell the gunpowder.
 

Shuffling around, Caverango squinted into the darkness hoping to see something. He wondered if Charley had gone ahead and shot Poqito after all. The man always seemed to be sipping on corn whiskey. He was probably drunk right now. Poor Poqito.

Caverango heard a twig snap and footsteps rushing his way. Before he knew it, somebody ran right into him and they both went down together.

“Es me! Es me!”
Caverango whispered tensely.

He could smell the familiar odor of corn whiskey. It was Charley Crouse.

“I figured so,” Charley whispered back. His voice was nonchalant, but in that initial moment of uncertainty his hands had sought out Caverango's throat. He relaxed his grip and let Caverango breathe again.

“Time to run the gauntlet,” Charley told him, quietly. “We been set upon from behind. Oh…and your Mexi friend is dead.”

Both of them got to their feet. Charley held onto Caverango's sleeve as they stood there, panting.

“Alright, you ready?” Charley asked in the dark and slapped him on the back. “Rattle your hocks!”

He took off at a run, pulling Caverango along by his sleeve.

Both men ran directly towards the orange flicker of firelight. They ran right by Lee and Davis, who were unsure whether or not to shoot. They rushed past the smoldering fire and leapt over Steve and jumped the big log. They sailed right over Rufe and disappeared into the night.

 
 
 

Chapter 52

Lefthand Canyon

 

“If you don't shut up about them apple orchards I'll reach over there and clock you,” Bill said to Granger.

“The hell you will,” Granger replied weakly.

Without the moon it was slow going. But since the stage road was an easy path to follow, they relaxed and let the horses pick their own way in the black night.

“He probably cut up some draw, back a'ways,” Granger went on. “Done euchered us…he's long gone.”

“Vincent, what are your thoughts on all this,” Bill asked. “Should I clock Granger?”

“If you don't, I will.”

“Hold up now!” Bill hissed.

They all stopped and listened. Bill thought he heard something besides the river and the cold wind. He held his breath. What was it? A deer moving through the brush? The crackle of a cookfire?

Silence.

A beaver tail slapped the creek's moving surface, somewhere off to their right.

Bill angled his head to one side. That had to have been it.

“Wish I could hear better out of this ear,” he said sourly to Vincent.

“It was either I shoot and damage
one
of your ears — or I not shoot, and you could hear the judge crisp with
both
ears.”

Bill's horse nickered.

Then they heard a horse burst into a gallop. They could easily hear the hoofsteps clattering down the road. They could not see to be sure, but Bill knew it was LG.

“There he goes!” Bill yelled.

 

Chapter 53

 

Bill was right — it was LG. He let Specter pull ahead at a dead run, even though he could not see a thing. He held the reins loose to give Specter his head. He certainly hoped the horse had enough trail sense.

Behind him, he heard guns go off. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark like lightning. With each flicker LG caught a glimpse of the road. Dark pines rose up to his right and left, walling him in. The only place to go was further down the road. LG's main worry was the wheel ruts. They were fairly deep.

LG brought his old .44 around and pulled the trigger. It fired. In that quick flash LG saw Bill, Vincent and Granger — clear as day for one split second.

They were right behind him.

LG leaned forward in the saddle like a jockey. Specter felt him shift his weight and pressed on even harder. The horse's breathing was loud, percussive. It was all LG could hear.

Time seemed to hang still.

LG wondered if it would be better to simply stop and shoot it out. Or run off into the trees on foot. But he knew that would be foolish for more than one reason. He rode on.

At that moment he heard a horse stumble behind him and go down. Someone just took a hard spill, LG thought. Almost at the same time, he heard horses squeal and somebody shout. He knew another horse had just wrecked — maybe all of them went down, he couldn't tell. Whatever happened, it sounded bad. But to LG's relief, the pursuit dropped off, and it was not long before Specter's hoofs were the only sound.

LG slowed him down to an easy trot. He was still expecting a wreck of his own and found it hard to believe he was still in one piece.

He strained to listen — no one was riding after him anymore.

The stage road was empty.

 

Chapter 54

Ward

 

Prescott Sloan drummed his fingers on the window sill.

“Okay, here it is,” Mr. James told him. “From Boulder Station:
Stage no arrival, stop; if this be antics necktie social to follow, stop.”
 

Spinning around, Sloan took the two steps it took to cross the room and leaned right over the banister. He plucked the paper out of Mr. James' hand.

Mr. James balked in surprise. His wiry glasses slid down his nose and nearly fell right off. He was not used to anyone plucking telegrams out of his hand. That was quite rude! But then, he knew Prescott Sloan well enough to expect rudeness.

“Damn and blast,” Prescott Sloan enunciated each word. He crumpled the paper in his fist.

Mr. James leaned back and scratched his head. Being a telegrapher could be boring much of the time. But sometimes things heated up. He wondered if it was better to hand Mr. Sloan his messages instead of reading them as they came off the wire. That
was
his standard practice, given that most folks were anxious to hear the message as it came in. It also gave Mr. James a bit of conversational fodder — it got pretty quiet in that tiny office. It was nice to chat with whoever came inside.

This particular message had come in earlier that morning, and Mr. James had stacked it on the pile like he normally did. When Prescott Sloan came through the door, Mr. James sorted through the stack until he found the right one, which took some time since a multitude of messages had rolled in that morning — which was unusual. Noting Sloan's impatient finger drumming on the window sill, Mr. James decided to immediately read it out loud. Now the testy banker was in a distemper. Perhaps Sloan took it as a breach of privacy, James considered. But as telegrapher, he read
everyone's
messages. He couldn't avoid it! From then on, Mr. James decided he would simply hand telegrams directly to the customer. He knew he would miss out on some nice conversation in the process, but he would also avoid any distemper as well. He sighed.

The front door was propped open a crack. The morning had turned out quite gray and gloomy, so Mr. James had the small woodstove going. However, in such a small building the room got hot quick. So he kept the door propped open enough to let some of it escape. He liked to be cozy for his telegraphy — not boil in a sweat lodge. Outside, through the cracked door, both Mr. James and Prescott Sloan heard the jingle of traces.

“That's them,” Sloan grumbled. “The fools!”

Flinging open the door, Sloan marched out into the street. He did not bother closing it behind him, so Mr. James had to get up and come all the way around the banister to close it…and make sure it stayed open just a crack.

Sure enough, coming up the road was the stagecoach. But to Sloan's surprise, Jim Everitt was not driving and Ian Mitchell was not riding shotgun. Sloan's simmering anger turned into concern — concern for the leather pouch he had sent down the mountain.

At the Halfway House, Griff brought the coach to an easy stop outside the corrals. Bitty the lead mule twitched her long ears, wondering why they were back here again. But perhaps there would be grain, so she stood patiently.

“Who in the hell are you?” Sloan snipped as he walked up.

“Deputy Sheriff of Grand Lake, Griff Allen,” Griff shot back. “And watch your tongue when you speak to me — don't care for salty language.”

“You're out of your jurisdiction, deputy. Now where is Jim Everitt? And why is he not operating this coach?”

Griff jumped down and landed hard on the ground. He was tired. With his thumb, he pointed back at the stagecoach. He was in no mood for snippy bankers with silver hair neatly combed to one side. Griff was not tired — he was exhausted. They had Lem's body, and of course the head of Will Wyllis in a pickle jar. But Emerson Greer's murderers were still not caught. That stuck in Griff's craw, but there was a time for everything. And this posse had run its course.

Now all Griff wanted was a hot meal, a bath and a shave. He wanted to go home. He wondered how Bonnie was holding up. She did not do well when he was gone. She got lonely. Griff thought about her, all by herself in the kitchen, baking one of her terrible-tasting carrot cakes. He found himself thinking how nice it would be to share a slice of that terrible carrot cake with her, sitting next to the fireplace. The boys would be rambunctious, probably get in a fistfight. They were always like that when he came in off the trail.

Ben Leavick sat silently up on the driving bench. He stared vaguely up at the mountains and the low gray sky. That was how he felt: low and gray. Sloan ignored him, grabbed the doorframe and hauled himself up so he could see through the window. The entire coach rocked with his weight.

“Bang-up job, boys,” he muttered darkly. “This is fine as cream gravy.”

Jim Everitt and Ian Mitchell were lying inside, dead as could be. There had holes in their heads and blood caked around their faces.

“Who's this other man?”

“One of the Grand Lake Gang,” Griff told him, matter of factly. “They killed your drivers.”

Opening the door, Sloan stepped inside and wiggled his boots in between the corpses, in order to get his balance. Without any further comments to Griff, Sloan proceeded to rifle through Jim Everitt's vest pockets. Not finding what he was looking for, Sloan went on to check every pocket he could find — he even went through Lem's clothes.

Hugh Hughes came out of the Halfway House and ran over to the stagecoach. His sleeves were rolled up and wet from doing dish-work. Someone just told him the stage had come back in. That was odd. In fact, it had never happened before. Jim and Ian always drove the same circuit, every week. Why would they turn back?

“What's going on?” Hugh asked, looking worried. “Jim?”

Sloan stuck his head out the door and glanced at Hugh. He knew Hugh had been friendly with these men. After all, they ate a meal and slept at the Halfway House all the time. Sloan did not care one whit's lick about them, himself. He did care about his PO Box key. He climbed out into the street again and pointed at the doorway. Hugh looked inside.

“Why, they kilt the boys,” Hugh said sadly. Then Hugh realized he had given Jim Everitt his pocketwatch. It was a family heirloom. He crawled up inside and began patting around at Jim's vest pockets, frantically.

“Ain't nothing there,” Sloan told him. But he watched closely in case Hugh found something he might have missed…like the key he had given to Jim Everitt. Or the sizable transfer fee he gave Ian Mitchell to get it safely down to Soapy Smith in Denver — which was not in their pockets, either. And now Jim was dead, the coach was sitting in Ward, and the cash and PO Box key were gone. And apparently, so was Hugh's pocketwatch.

With a slow sigh, Hugh sagged down heavily in the doorway. He wiped his hands on the front of his apron.

“Took my pappy's pocketwatch,” he said. “Meant for my sister. There was a funeral and everything. She was supposed to get that watch.”

Griff had been a lawman all his adult days. It was not the first time he had seen men grieved over a loss of property or life. He had seen a lot of loss in the past month alone. Emerson Greer. These two coach drivers. The cowmen of the B-Cross-C. And two dead outlaws. Griff wondered what caused men to be so violent towards one another — especially toward total strangers. And it was almost always over monetary interests.