Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (36 page)

Henry, Albert, Kenyon and the cookie were all standing at the chuckwagon, watching. Cookie was holding his own plate of bean-soaked biscuits, his fork halfway to his mouth. He just held it there, watching the fight.

Lee scrambled to his feet and went to check on Davis. He pressed his neckerchief over the worst of the wounds to soak up the blood. Arizona Johnny hunched over and pressed his hands to his head.

“Don't get your dander up, Johnny,” Frank told him. “No one lit no match. It was lightning that spooked that herd.”

“You know all there is to know, don't you, Yearwood?”

Looking pained, Arizona Johnny got up and slowly angled toward the chuckwagon. He strutted past the men standing there — past Henry, Albert, and Kenyon — eyeing them toughly as he went by. Arizona Johnny paused in front of the cook. He grabbed the plate right out of the man's hand. Cookie just handed over his fork without saying anything.

“Hell, Frank,” Johnny said, chewing with his mouth open. “You in Boyce's pocket, huh? Course I knowed that. Need to hash this out?”

Frank held up his Colt.

“I'm heeled,” Frank pointed out, waving the gun a little. “We can hash this out.”

Johnny plucked up a bean-sopped biscuit. It was a big bite, and he stood there chewing for a long moment, looking like a coiled snake. Frank sighed. He undid the hammer and holstered the handgun.

“Just get on outta here, Johnny. Go cash out at headquarters. You're done for. Tell Billy Ney the same. I don't want to see neither one of you again.”

Davis lay on the ground, his breathing was labored, but his eyes were clear. He glared at Johnny but did not speak or try to move. He was hurting pretty bad.

“Know what,” Johnny said finally. “Sick o' this shit.”

He pressed the plate flat against the cook's chest, smearing black beans and sauce across his chest. The plate peeled off his shirt and fell to the grass. The cook did not move an inch.

Arizona Johnny put a foot in the stirrup and pulled up heavily onto his horse. Sitting up straight, he grabbed the reins and clicked his tongue.

“Boyce thinks he's got Barbeque all tidied up. Boy, he gonna kick up a row a'fore this is all done.”

And with that they watched Arizona Johnny ride off into the afternoon. The sun was overhead, pale yellow and hot. It was another dry August day in northern Texas. All that lightning and wind…and no rain came of it.

“Well, I'll be,” remarked Albert Smith.

He went over to help Davis. Together with Lee, the two of them got Davis up to his feet. Albert checked him over. Davis was certainly in pain, but the stabs were not all that deep really. He knew the man was going to be sore for a few days. Blood had been spilled, but he would heal up.

 
 

Chapter 30

Hartsel Ranch

South Park

 

Samuel Hartsel's hairline was pretty much gone up top. What was left was short-cropped and white, and so was his neatly trimmed beard. But his eyes were dark and sharp. He also stood a little too close to LG when he spoke.

“Shorthorns — the whole herd,” Sam Hartsel told him proudly. “Purebred. What do you think about that, sir?”

“Why, that makes good sense,” LG replied. “Pure stock makes for high quality beeves, and high quality beeves makes for a purty penny.”

“You understand what we're about, then.”

When LG rode in to Hay Ranch earlier in the week, Til informed LG all about Sam Hartsel's operation and his theories on pureblood stock. Til was aiming to try the same thing, he said. Sam Hartsel was working on it. Charles Goodnight was working on it. And it did seem to make good sense — LG could get on board. As long as he had cattle to punch and a horse to ride, LG was game for anything. It sure had been good to see the old B-Cross crew. Til, Emmanuel…and even the McSpookies.

Mr. Hartsel leaned in even closer to emphasize what he was saying. He was well above LG in height, thin framed and stern in opinion.

“I was the first rancher here in the Park. Bought up 160 acres, right here between the two forks of the South Platte. All started with just twenty head. In '64, boy, there was no one around and I could graze ‘em up and down the Park without worrying…without worrying about cross-breeding, you see.”

LG realized he was in for a sermon. But he was expecting it, after talking to Til. LG knew it was wise to pay attention if he hoped to sign on. The Hartsel Ranch was a crossroads of sorts, and that's what LG wanted. The Whale Mine had worn him down quick. There was nothing to do up there but drink and gamble and listen to the same miners prattle on about the same pipe dreams night after night.

“Then I went and bought me a hundred and fifty more. Two bulls and the rest were cows. Brought them in from Missour'uh myself. Took time. Took persistence, you see. Built this place up. Sawmill. Hotel. Blacksmith. Wagon shop and trading post. They all come right through here, yes they do. From Currant Creek Pass to Wilkerson, they all roll through here. Still do, you see.”

Hartsel put both his hands on LG's shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

“Then my brother disappeared. Found the skeleton under a tree — his horse too, all bone-dry and crumpled in. Lightning, you see. Struck him dead. Then a tich later, I got took by Cheyennes. Killers. Not like the Utes, you see. But a little ingenuity got me shut of that situation.”

“I see,” LG said.

Nodding, he wondered where this was all going. LG was good at talking, but not so good at listening, and had to force himself to. And Sam Hartsel was a man who could fill up a room all by himself. Maybe even more so than LG.

“Then ranchers started moving into the Park: cows, horses, a few grangers. And the plagues! Locusts in '74. Grasshoppers in '76. Know how many cows are grazing out there right now? Fifty thousand! Fifty thousand cows…and there's thousands of horses and sheep, too.
Sheep!
Used to be a time when I had all the
grazing land I needed, and keeping pure stock pure was cherry pie. Does it sound like cherry pie to you?”
 

“No, sir. No, sir, it does not.”

“Well, hell if it is. 'Cuz it ain't. This ain't cherry pie. But I aim to keep them Shorthorns
pure
, young man. If even
one
of them low breed bulls gets to poking around in one of my pastures, there will be hell to pay I can assure you.”
 

By that time, Sam Hartsel was leaning heavily on LG's shoulders. He looked at LG closely, studying him, as if he could see right into his mind. The man must have seen what he was looking for, because Hartsel's face suddenly relaxed and he grinned softly. He unclamped his shoulders and LG felt like a spell had been broken.

“I'll cut you $2.75 a day. Plenty of good chow here, only the best. Eat all you want, and you get a nice room in the yellow wing all to yourself.”

Then Hartsel snapped his fingers as if he just thought of another selling point.

“And we've got
hot running water
. You heard me. We pipe it straight inside the house from the hot spring. Get you a warm bath every night if you want it. How about that now?”
 

LG realized he had the job. He took off his big hat and ran his fingers through his crusty hair. It had been awhile since he had bathed at all, let alone in warm water.

“Shoot, I may never leave.”

Hartsel chuckled and clapped his hands. He looked past LG and spotted a stagecoach coming across the low grassy hills. He immediately set off towards the hotel. LG turned around to see what he was looking at. The coach was just a speck heading right toward them, pitching up a dusty cloud.

Hartsel waved without looking at him.

“Got customers, I best head in. Keep them Shorthorns
pure!
”
 

The hotel door closed with a bang, and LG was left to figure out what was next. He could smell the river and hear it bubbling by. The cattle were grazing on the far side. It wasn't a bad place to be. Better than milking and collecting eggs for $1.50 a day. Now he was heading up Sam Hartsel's stock operation for nearly twice that — plus hot baths and free sit-down meals.

Taking a look around, LG took it all in. There was the hotel and trading post. He could hear someone hammering away in the wagon shop, and smoke puffed out of the blacksmith's. A sizable group of folks were strung about, coming and going on the wide thorough way. Freighters, passengers, cowboys. LG could even see a railroad grade. Two pretty ladies walked by in colorful skirts and carried shade umbrellas. Yes, this was a bit more his style.

LG led his horse to the nearest hitching post.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part 3

 

 

 

 

 

PART 3

 

Notable Brown's Park residents:

Speck Williams – ferry operator

Mary Crouse – Charley's wife

John Jarvie – runs the store on the Green River

Mexican Joe Herrera

Asbury Conway

The Hoys

The Bassetts

 
 

Chapter 1

Grand Lake

 

Ben Leavick was not a drinker — anymore.

It was four in the afternoon. Daylight shot through the doorway each time someone stumbled out the door. It made the room light up and the drinkers inside squint. It also made it feel like the seediest place in town.

At least, that was how Ben felt each time the door swung open. He glanced around at the drunkards of Grand Lake. This wasn't a place he would typically step foot in, but this wasn't a normal day. Well, truth be told, he hadn't had a normal day since Sheriff Emerson Greer's death. Even though the world kept on moving, Ben's world had not. A hollow feeling settled in the bottom of his gut and stayed put. So he figured, no, he hadn't had a normal day since then so why should entering a seedy saloon in the middle of the day make him feel out of place? Everything was already out of place.

Ben did not touch alcohol for any reason. He didn't want to lose his sharpness, even dull it, for a single moment. What if he needed to be sharp? Any time, anything could happen. Like when Em got shot dead. They had been on the trail for bank thieves. Just riding along through the snowy rocks. It had been quiet in the high country that day. The pine trees were frosted over — the branches sagged but held their loads. It was still winter back then, snowy and bitter cold especially when the sun was blocked by that thin cloud-cover, as it was that day. No one knew, but Ben knew: they had a bottle with them. Greer drew on it some. Ben drew on it some. That was how they lost the tracks. If they were thinking clear, they would have seen that the riders had circled around.
Back into town
. That was how Emerson got shot. And how Ben got beaten down with just a few hard whacks to the skull. But no one else knew that — no one but Ben Leavick and the late Emerson Greer, and the knowledge was becoming harder and harder to keep bottled up inside.

The glass in front of him was just Vin Mariani. Caffeine and some cocaine. He was waiting for it to kick in and wash out his headache.

Em and Ben had been amigos for a long time. They had lived in Grand Lake for about the same length. They both had youngsters about the same age. Caroline, Emerson's kindly wife, was staying over at Ben's place ever since the shooting — his own wife Meggy was a consolation while Caroline grieved.

Meggy was an oak. Not only for her bereft friend, but for her own husband though she never knew the whole of it. Ben scowled. A lot of long nights and silent supper tables had gone by. Poor Meggy. And poor Caroline. Losing her husband to such senseless killing. Absolutely senseless. The love of money was like kerosene — the fuel of so much evil. The Good Book was right on that one. What was wrong with this crummy world, Ben wondered, that people murder other people like that? Over coins.

“Two of them turned up dead,” Red Creek told Ben quietly. “Down thereabouts of Cañon City.”

Ben nodded and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He scraped out some sleep crumbs and wiped his hand on his pants. His sense of hygiene was going downhill. Meggy gently tried to help but never said anything about it out loud.

“Can't catch no decent sleep,” he explained to Red Creek. Red Creek merely stared at him. He had deeply bloodshot eyes, much worse than Ben's.

All Ben's private thoughts would stir up every night he blew out the bed lamp. Even after a hard day's work. Meggy would pass off into sleep quickly — she always did, no matter the day or its happenings. Not Ben. He would lie awake. Even when he was completely worn out, his mind kept working.

Red sat across from Ben, passively. Ben always wondered if the man got his name from a creek somewhere or if it was on account of his eyes being bloodshot all the time. Ben rubbed his own eyes again. He didn't want to have red eyes like Red Creek. Meggy would have something to say for sure.