Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (9 page)

“June of '61,” Father Dyer replied without having to think about it.

His fingers were wrinkled, although they were sinewy and still very strong considering his age. He leaned back in his chair, removed his worn patched hat and set it on the table. Throughout the Halfway House, there were kerosene lanterns on every tabletop. The entire room was filled with yellow lantern light.

“It was quiet up there in those days. Buckskin Gulch was so overrun, some of them miners just up and moved four miles northeast. Hit a lode. But they forgot to name the area that first meeting.”

The minister smiled at the memory. He leaned forward again, eyes sharp with the retelling.

“When the boys got together next, they opened the minutes of that first meeting. On that blank spot, precisely where a name was to be written — they discovered a skeeter. Finely pressed amidst the pages!”

He sat up straight, folding his arms. Sloan smiled politely. He did not really care to hear the old man's story. He was waiting for the stagecoach to get into town — it should have rolled in by now. When Dyer came in and sat down, Sloan realized he was in for another long-winded story. His eyes went out the window each time a figure passed by. It was almost dark outside, but still light enough to tell when someone went by.

“And how is Lucinda?” Sloan asked him.

Father Dyer looked down into his coffee cup. The black surface was still. He could see his own silhouette in the coffee, looking back up at him.

“She passed,” he answered and sighed. “Been two years now. Happened almost as soon as we got to Denver.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Jehovah Jireh, my Provider,” Dyer spoke with conviction. “It is well with my soul, Mr. Sloan.”

Sloan raised the thin cigar and puffed at it. Ashes dropped onto his fine suit vest. He brushed at them with his fingertips. Someone walked past the window — it was Ian Mitchell, finally. The door opened and the man came inside.

“My soul as well,” Sloan said. “Mr. Mitchell! Take a seat.”

Stomping the mush off his boots, Ian Mitchell looked down at Sloan with little interest. He rode shotgun on the postal stage. The Halfway House was not only a public eatery, it was an official stage stop. It was also the place where Sloan liked to surprise him when he had a special message to deliver to Boulder.

“Father Dyer,” Sloan said by way of introduction, waving the cigarillo in his direction.

“How do,” Ian said and tipped his hat. “Jim'll be in soon. Untacking the jerk-line.”

“Ian and Jim Everitt are our finest stage drivers.”

“Jim manages the reins,” Ian specified. “I manage the scatter gun.”

He removed his duster and draped it across the back of an empty chair, then sat down heavily.

“How's your route looking?” Sloan inquired.

“Lyons to Estes to here today. Lake's still froze up there,” Ian said, yawning without concern. “Gold Hill in the morning. Jamestown. Boulder by the twilight tomorrow — then start the whole thing over again.”

The owner of the Halfway House, Hugh Hughes, came up just then wiping his hands on a towel. The Halfway House was situated in Ward, which was halfway between Boulder and Estes Park.

“Supper's being served,” Hugh said. “Beefsteak, onions, bread and gravy. Pickles or dried apricots?”

“Beats sop n' taters,” Ian told Hugh. “Jim's coming in, too. Apricots.”

Hugh nodded and worked his way back towards the kitchen.

The door opened again and they all felt the cold air swirl in. Sloan hunched against it. He was an indoor man and disliked the elements. Father Dyer sat unmoved — he preferred the outdoors and favored the elements. He was also frugal. Once, he walked all the way from Fairplay to Denver just to avoid the cost of a stage ride.

“Gloomy out,” Jim said bleakly. “Feels a lot later than I know it to be.”

“Take up a seat,” Ian said, kicking out a chair from under the table.

“Father Dyer,” Jim said and shook hands. Then he noticed Sloan at the table and sighed.

“Sloan.”

“Well, I best carry on.”

Dyer got to his feet, buttoning his overcoat and replacing his hat.

“Prescott. Gentlemen. Good day.”

“Father,” Sloan replied. “Best in your travels.”

The old man stepped out the door and into the lightly blowing snow. Sloan's smile faded as he watched Dyer, through the window, drift off into the evening.

“The lion and the lamb,” Jim quipped with a wry chuckle.

“Is that a commentary regarding my moral disposition?” Sloan asked, eyes narrowing.

Hugh returned to the table carrying two plates of food. He placed them in front of the stage men.

“Fifty cents,” Hugh stated. “Each.”

The two men paid up and turned their attention to their food. It did beat the standard feed the stage service provided for their drivers. After a long day up on a coach top, bundled up against the weather, it was a welcome break to get inside and eat a warm meal.

“Banker and the preacher, supping at the same table,” Jim continued. “The Good Book says:
Ye cannot serve both God and mammon
.”
 

Sloan shook his head and laughed awkwardly. Who did these two fools think they were speaking to?

“Well ain't that the gospel truth?” Sloan mused.

The stage men eyed him blankly over fork-fulls of beef.

Sloan leaned forward and glanced around to see who was watching. From his coat, he pulled out a small buckskin pouch and slid it across the table. Inside there was a PO Box key and a note to Soapy Smith, the most notable crime boss in Colorado. He was opening the Tivoli, his most ambitious racketeering operation to date, and Sloan was getting in on it. But these fools didn't need to know any of that. They were no more useful than the mules they drove. In fact that's what they were. Mules. Carrying a load from one place to the next.

“This goes to Boulder on the morrow's stage. Keep it under close perspective.”

Jim paused mid-chew.

“Close perspective,” he said without much subtlety, “requires effort.”

“Effort,” Ian added, “requires recompense.”

Sloan's face spread into another one of his empty smiles.

“And so it does.”

The banker produced a roll of cash money and tossed it to Ian Mitchell.

“For your troubles and woe.”

 

Chapter 14

Beaver Creek

 

“Didn't slacken his gait any. It was the durndest blizzard but he was a frisky coot.”

The leather creaked as LG shifted in his saddle, adjusting to keep from getting too sore in any one place.

“But I made the line shack!” he said. “Could barely see his withers it blew so thick. He was an ol' devil, pulled some rodeo work ever time I saddled. But he right found his way through that whiteout.”

Casey could understand the value of a good trail horse.

“Hard to throw a cowman off his trail — when his neck relies upon the trace of it.”

“Snow blowed up against the doorframe up to my knees. I banged on that door and I banged again.”

LG chuckled as he remembered the great relief he felt that day.

“Tell you, them sour-dough biscuits and hot black coffee had a place for me. That day and forward.”

“Mercury's low,” Til said. He rode up, his breath visible in the air.

LG cocked his head to one side to examine the sky.

“Looks like it's letting up.”

Only light flakes were falling now. Casey reached inside his coat and produced a small battered notebook.

“Final count: two thousand thirty-three,” Casey told him. “That's everything that can walk.”

“I'll ride on down to Ward,” Til said. “Wire the stockyards…let them know what we're bringing in. Get us scheduled with the depot.”

“You're heading out tonight?” asked Casey. Til was no procrastinator, that was for certain. When he did something, he did it right away and he did it well. Still, the thought of a cold night's ride in the pitch dark was not something that appealed to Casey.

“Yep,” Til replied. “Hate to say it. Weather not cooperating and such. But time is slipping on us, boys.”

“Alright then,” LG said. “The herd will hit the trail, too.”

Even though the winter was technically over, it didn't feel that way. Casey had supposed they would be driving the herd during the daylight and bed down at dark. Not only was Til going to ride through the night, they all would.

“Gambly, I know,” Til admitted. “Get her started. Head on down Spring Gulch, you should make Preacher's Glen by three AM. Camp there. I'll try and catch up to you in the canyon sometime tomorrow.”

Casey glanced around. There was a cold fog closing in. Everything was gray and getting harder to see by the moment. The cattle were nosing through the soft snow to find the grass again. It had been there yesterday, and they knew it.

“Casey, tell Emmanuel to pack up right after supper and take that chuckwagon on down the mountain. Get ‘er set up in the Glen. Have a hot fire waiting for you boys.”

Til headed east, down Beaver Creek, out of the valley and into the trees. The big bay left a line of dark hoofprints in the thin layer of wet snow. The light was starting to disappear. Dusk came early when the clouds were low and the fog rolled in.

 

Chapter 15

Mining Encampment

Continental Divide

11,800 ft.

Near Grand Lake

 

Almost as soon as the sun dropped below the horizon the wind picked up. It whistled and weaved across the snowy rocks long after dark. Tiny ice crystals blew across the ridge and stung their skin. Bill and Vincent turned their backs to the wind and braced for the chill. The ridge was exposed and there was nothing to stop it.

“Stand right there behind me,” Vincent told Granger. “Block the wind.”

They were above timberline — the last few trees were just downhill from where they stood, maybe a hundred steps. At this altitude the trees that
were
there were short and scrubby, twisted from the rough conditions. Vincent could guess why, with weather like this.

Granger hated Vincent. They had traveled together for about a year now, mainly robbing banks, stages, and the occasional homestead. But it had been a long year for Granger. Vincent, primly dressed at all times and overly fond of personal grooming in Granger's opinion, continually patronized him and spoke with frequent derision. It had grown tiresome.

“I said block the damn wind.”

Granger muttered, but then moved around behind them.

 “There she goes! Poq and Cav got it down,” Bill told Vincent triumphantly. “We'll soon have us a verifiable inferno.”

Bill rocked back and forth, rubbing his hands together. The moon had just risen above the ridge. In the light, Bill watched the two Mexicans successfully uproot a stunted pine. Poqito quirted the mule while Caverango pulled on the halter, and the pine came twisting up out of the rocks.

The mule was not pleased about being the only mule on the windy ridge. The other horses and mules were corralled further down in the forest, out of sight. The mule wanted to be down there, too — perhaps eating some tasty grain, which he knew was packed in heavy satchels that he had hauled himself earlier in the day. Even now, the mule suspected the other stock animals were eating that very grain.

The moon disappeared as the wind pushed some clouds across the sky.

“Those mex'kins worth their weight in gold right about now,” Granger said, shivering. He turned and shouted in the darkness. “Hurry up, you gall-dam mex'kins!”

His breath hissed in and out of the gap in his teeth. Granger had lost a front tooth several years back. Drunk outside a saloon in Silverthorne, he commenced to banging on an outhouse door. The occupant became irritated and flung open the door after completing his business. It caught Granger in the face. This was not only an unfortunate loss of a front tooth, it was also the moment he developed a deep-set fear of outhouses. From that point on, Granger preferred to relieve himself in the open. This was not always an easy option, especially in towns. Horse stalls and hay barns were his favorite places, if he could find them. They afforded the right amount of privacy.

“Leave them two alone. They're getting us a backlog,” Bill told him. “That thing will burn all night. Sooner they get it up in that hearth, the sooner we all warm up.”

Vincent rearranged his neck scarf to keep the wind out. He rubbed his upper left arm carefully. The wound was still raw. He needed to change the bandage every day now — by the time the sun went down, it became a sticky scab pile. He was not sure if it would heal properly on its own. The deputy had gotten him good for a near-blind shot through the haze of dynamite smoke. And it might be awhile before they were far enough away to find a doctor's office where there would be no worry about the law recognizing them.

“That sheriff won't last long,” Vincent mentioned. “Township will be none too pleased I'm sure. Question is…how much of a lead do we have?”

“Better to be safe than dead, I suspect,” Bill said. “We've got what we took from Kinsey City and it's a good haul. But those bricks have weight. We bury all that here. Travel light.”

The moon came out of the clouds again, brightening the whole ridge like it was day — and then everything went dark again. In that moment, Bill could see Poqito and Caverango were leading the mule up the boulder field.

“If anything does come to pass, light out,” Bill told Vincent and Granger. “Spread far afield, so they don't know who to follow. Then make for the apple orchards at Hall's Ranch. By the next full moon.”

“Lyons ain't near far enough,” Granger muttered.

Bill turned to him, and his eyes became hard. Reaching out quickly, Bill took a cold ear between his knuckles and tweaked it around. Granger buckled to his knees and screamed in pain. Bill hung on and shook it around a bit.