Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (3 page)

“Fine,” Granger grumbled and began to stomp around again.

Poqito and Caverango did not move or speak. They merely continued to watch Granger, warily but patiently. Both of them were nervous that once Vincent left to go spring Bill, Granger's civility towards them would deteriorate.

Poqito glanced at Caverango. They both understood one another's worries, and sneakily unbuttoned their coats — if things went south, they could make a grab for their gunbelts a little easier. Poqito knew Granger's gun was already in the man's pocket, where he had his hands buried at the moment. He hoped Vincent would not be gone long.

  

Chapter 4

Beaver Creek

Shifting the reins to his right hand, Casey rode near the willows. He held out his free hand and let his fingers graze along the willow branches as he passed by. Casey had worked for many outfits over the last ten years — all in Colorado. And he loved willows and aspen and orange dirt and bits of quartz, and the pale blue sky. This was his country. Nighthawk on a winter shift would not change that high opinion.

His dog ran alongside, trying to keep up with his horse. All Casey could hear was the bay's breathing and the crunching snow beneath his hoofs. Casey tucked his chin into his scarf.

In a bend of the creek, he caught sight of an orange flicker. It was the cookfire. Beyond the fire was a one-room log cabin — the ranch headquarters. The walls were dark pine chinked with white mortar and nearly invisible in the dim light. He could also make out the covered wagon parked by the corral, where the remuda was lined up at the rail watching him.

On the potrack was a large steaming kettle. Tucked in the coals were two Dutch ovens, round and black and speckled with soot. Casey knew one of those was the 3-day beans. But there were no slap-jacks as he hoped.

Casey rode up to the fire and just sat there for a minute smelling the woodsmoke. Hopper caught up and ran right over to Emmanuel, a large black man with a filthy apron around his waist. He welcomed the shaggy dog with a big grin.

“Here ya go, pard,” the cook said and gave him a biscuit. “How's that taste?”

LG Pendleton stood in the shadowy doorway, leaning against the doorjamb with his hat in his hand. He used his fingers to comb through his hair and seated the hat firmly on his head.

Finally, Casey dismounted, moving very slowly. He was sore. He immediately knelt down to a crouch, stretching. Sitting in the saddle all night made his legs cramp up but he only really felt it when he got back on the ground. LG lit a cigarette and called to Emmanuel:

“How about this tough ol' puncher riding in. Looks like he's been wrastlin' injuns and a-tustlin' grizz. Big night on the graveyard watch, I can read that sign.”

“LG, sleep all cozy again?” Casey said wryly. “Never seem to get that short straw, do you.”

LG laughed at him.

“And chipper as a lark!”

“Casey Pruitt,” Emmanuel announced. “There's a-beans and biscuits fo' ya. Pipin' hot.”

“Oh, them biscuits are looking mighty tempting, Emmanuel.”

Emmanuel tossed a yellow biscuit to Casey.

“Gonna cut my night horse loose and I'll be back for coffee.”

Reins in one hand, biscuit in another, Casey walked heavily towards the corral. The horses inside hung their faces curiously over the fenceline, ears perked up. They hoped he was bringing them grain but he wasn't.  Casey's bay nickered.  He was eager to get turned out and fed some grain himself.

“How come no one be a-eatin' my beans?” Emmanuel asked LG. “There was a time when my beans was second to none.”

“Camp cookie sure ain't your calling,” LG said and clapped him on the shoulder. “You can rope a steer with a blindfold on, but you can't seem to get a loop around a can of beans.”

“If it weren't fer my damned ol' black face, I'd be a-runnin' my own outfit a long time ago.”

“I know it, you know it. Every hand here knows it.”

LG stepped up to the fire and flicked his cigarette in the hot embers.

“You kin cook up some biscuits — least you got
one
redeeming quality.”
 

“Gonna keep me ‘round now.”

“Gonna keep you around.”

Casey cut his horse loose into the remuda. He took the reins and headstall, and lugging his saddle by the horn, dropped it all inside the cabin door. He came back out and blinked in the smoke. He stood there for a long moment staring into the yellow flames.

“Case. Get some coffee in you,” LG said. He picked up a tin cup and poured some in.

Gingerly, Casey took the hot cup and blew at the steam.

“How's the boy?”

“On that creampuff paint. Composing verse when I left him.”

LG snickered and looked over at Emmanuel, hoping to get him riled up. The cook had a laugh that sounded like a donkey, so LG liked to get him going. But Emmanuel merely shook his head at the thought of Edwin's riding abilities.

“I hope he learns himself a lesson,” LG observed. “Hurricane deck of a bad horse ain't for a greenhorn. Poets or none.”

“That boy put his hand in the fire, if you tells him not to,” commented Emmanuel.

“Shoot, he'd crawl right in and pull on a blanket,” LG said.

   

Chapter 5

Grand Lake

 

Bells tolled. It was Sunday and most of the townspeople were either sleeping the morning away or sitting in a pew. Main Street was empty. Blacksmith, livery, bank, assayer's, feed & seed — no one was outside; they were all inside where it was warm.

Griff himself had spent most of the morning in the small sheriff's office in front of the woodstove. He finally decided it was time to feed the prisoner, so he put on his coat, pushed open the door and stepped out into the brisk air. A cold front had certainly rolled in. His nose had developed a drip, and he felt the wetness crystallize in his nostrils the moment he breathed in. Large flat-bottomed clouds were crawling slowly across the sky. It was not even noon yet. One glance at the sky and Griff knew snow would be falling in a couple hours.

The sheriff's office was stationed straight across the street from the courthouse — where Bill was locked up, probably shivering the morning away. All Griff did was push a wool blanket through the jail bars, once Ben and Emerson left. That big old courthouse was just too cold to sit around in.

Griff glanced up at the sky again and squinted, tipping his hat to shade his eyes. The sun had just crept up over Mount Craig and was shining brightly in the small space between the mountaintop and the thick gray clouds.

He started walking but paused for a moment to button his overcoat. Just walking from one place to the next gave him a sharp chill, even in the direct sunlight. But the direct sunlight was about to disappear behind those clouds and the temperature would drop once it did.  He knew he should have buttoned up his coat before he stepped outside, but sometimes he just didn't think about it until he was already out the door.

A green hummingbird flew close by, drawn in by his red silk scarf. It buzzed around his shoulders for a moment and then flew off.

“Go hole up,” Griff told the bird kindly. The calendar might have said spring, but the sky still said winter.

He glanced over at the courthouse. He did not feel bad for Bill. If it wasn't for Bill and his pards, none of them would be out riding horses in the bitter cold backcountry.

The Grand Placer Saloon was empty except for Otto the barkeeper, who was toking on a cigar. Griff wasn't much of a saloon patron these days. Marriage had domesticated him. Griff could admit that. His wife Bonnie was a churchgoing lady and was staunchly opposed to drinking and dancing. So Griff gave it all up. But he did yearn for a good cigar every now and then, especially when he caught the sweet scent of aromatic tobacco.

“Morning, Griff.”

Otto was a heavy-set man and quite bald. He was sitting on a tall stool behind the ornate mahogany bartop playing solitaire. The Grand stayed open all day and all night: all day for the drinkers, all night for the gamblers.

“I believe spring actually got here. Saw me a hummingbird right outside that door.”

“Not attending service this week?”

“No, sir. Got one in the jailhouse.”

“
Wish
you were attending service this week?”
 

“No, sir.”

Otto grinned. He knew Griff, and he knew Bonnie.

“How can I help you on this fine Sund'y morning?”

“I best get some feed over to the courthouse.”

“Tell the Missus you got one in a cell next Sund'y. How does ice fishing suit you?” Otto suggested, disappearing into the kitchen. He knew Griff would not tell the Missus anything of the sort, but he thought he would mention it anyhow.

White lies on a Sunday would not go over well with Bonnie Allen. Griff tried that once in the first year of their marriage — in order to do some regular summer fishing. It in fact had
not
gone over well, and afforded a memorable conversation once he returned home that day.

Griff leaned up against the bar and looked around the room. He spotted a man sitting quietly at a window table. So quietly that Griff had walked right past him on the way in.

“How do,” Griff said.

“Morning there,” Vincent said. “Couldn't help but overhear. Are you the sheriff?”

Griff shook his head.

“
Deputy
Sheriff of Grand County.”
 

“Judas Furlong,” Vincent introduced himself, untruthfully. “Rocky Mountain News.”

Vincent took one last bite of fried egg and scraped backward in his chair. He rose with a friendly smile. A sunbeam angled through the window pane and lit up the dust in the air. It was always odd to be in the Grand on a Sunday morning. It was so quiet compared to a regular day.

“Not much to write about,” Griff informed him. “Last year all the mining camps basically shut down. Seems like a ghost town up here now.”

Vincent straightened his neck tie, and then they shook hands.

Griff noticed he was dressed sharply. When they shook hands, Griff also noticed a fine turquoise ring. He wondered what kind of salary a newspaperman got. A deputy sheriff could not afford nice turquoise rings. Of course, Bonnie's shopping habits tended to whittle into the family finances quite a bit.

“Not here about the mines. Heard you have a man in your jail.”

“Word must travel. Just came in night before last. How did you hear about that already?”

Vincent pulled out a notebook and pencil from his vest pocket.

“Word travels.”

He wagged the pencil in his fingers.

“Like to do an article on you and your sheriff,” he continued. “Write up the story how you captured this unruly brigand.”

Just then Otto came out carrying a tin plate. There was a cloth napkin on top, covering it over. He walked carefully around the bar towards Griff.

“It's too hot to hold…except beneath the applesauce.”

Griff lifted the napkin so he could find the applesauce. There was toast, fried eggs, applesauce, and half the plate was filled with hot chili. Griff took hold of it by the cool side and covered it back over with the napkin.

“Dern, look at all this. Who we feeding…the President?” Griff asked him. “Still got that celestial working the cook stove?”

“Yep.”

“Dish me up a full plate when I get back.”

Vincent fell into step behind Griff, and they both left the Grand Placer. The street was still empty, and it felt even colder than it had a few minutes before. Griff glanced down and realized he must have unbuttoned his coat again, inside the Grand, but he could not button it back up with a hot plate in his hand. He decided to just walk quickly. Up the street, he could hear hymns being sung in the Methodist church. Even though the words were muffled too much to pick out, Griff knew the tune.

“What can you tell me about this prisoner?”

Vincent held up his notepad as if he was ready to write, but Griff was not paying too much attention to him. It was too cold with his coat unbuttoned, plus he had to take care not to slosh hot chili onto his thumbs and scald himself. He angled for the courthouse at a fast clip.

“Well, this one ain't talking too much yet,” Griff answered, over his shoulder. “His crew robbed a little bank down in Kinsey City last week.”

“What else do you know?”

“Sheriff Greer caught this one himself.” Griff smiled as he thought about it. “We happened to be right there, as luck went. Eating dinner at the Kinsey Inn right across the river. Heard the dynamite go off. Smoke was rolling out the front door of that little bank. This fella ran out the door at that very moment. Greer buffaloed him — just like Wyatt Earp.”

Pretending to be a newspaperman was easy, Vincent realized. All you have to do is scribble down some notes and people think they'll be in the papers. He glanced up and down the street. No one was around, and the deputy was too busy with the plate of food to even notice the effort Vincent was putting in, so he tucked the pencil in his vest and put away the notebook. He was just pretending to write things down, anyway.

“Let me help with that door.”

He held the courthouse door open. Griff was being careful with the soupy plate because he didn't want to spill on himself. But Griff was also being careful, because he did not want hot chili slopping onto the nice hardwood floors. The courthouse clerk, the elderly — and quarrelsome — Betty Anne Hartworst would go into conniptions if she saw chili spilled on her floors.

“That is quite a feat. News worthy.”

“Right place at the right time. Sheriff's out with Ben Leavick right now, tracking the ones that peeled off.”

“Any official prognostications I might write up?”

“I have no idea what you just said.”