Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (5 page)

“One shot,” Bill warned, gritting his teeth. “And this whole town's upon us.”

But Vincent did not move. He kept the gun pressed against Griff's skull and tapped his finger on the trigger guard. Vincent really wanted to shoot him. Not only to return the favor but to make him pay for ruining his good clothes. Blood did not come out easy once it set and Vincent went to great lengths to make sure he was dressed properly every day. He had barely gotten it out the first time and even hand-stitched the sleeve with a needle and thread. That was no easy feat for someone riding the trail, dodging the law — and there was clearly no chance of finding a launderer in this town under these circumstances. Vincent had no intention of looking unkempt like Granger or the Mexicans, or most of the boys for that matter. He preferred to maintain a sense of nobility about his appearance. It set him apart from the common criminal, and in his mind he was better than the others — better at robbing, killing, and better at getting away with it. A blood-stained sleeve made him feel like he was no longer set apart and that was something he could not abide.

“As it stands, they got no impetus besides a bunged up deputy,” Bill reasoned. He kept his voice low as he spoke. He was hoping Vincent would listen to good sense and stay calm. All they had to do was get out of town without causing a ruckus.

Vincent relaxed suddenly and tucked the gun into his belt.

“Fine.”

Working together, Bill and Vincent dragged Griff into the cell and dumped him on the floor face down in the chili and applesauce.

 
 
 

Chapter 8

Beaver Creek

 

When his arms locked around its horns, the steer bawled and writhed but Casey twisted and dropped his body weight and they both came down as one.

Casey held the steer down on its side. Behind him, LG rode past him on his sorrel. The sorrel was LG's good cutting horse. He had the rope dallied around the saddle horn. It ran out taut behind him to a resigned calf, which was being dragged along by its hind legs.

“Hook ‘em cow!” LG called down to it. Casey ignored the taunt. He was waiting for Edwin to apply the iron and while he waited, he glanced up at LG and shook his head.

The herd was a continual noise of lowing and bellowing. The sky had closed in over the sun again. Dark clouds had bunched up over the peaks to the west and rolled out overhead as far as anyone could see.

One of the new cowhands, Steve McGonkin, bent down and grabbed onto the steer's hind leg. With a grunt he pulled out it straight for a clean brand.

“Hold him tight, Steve.”

Pulling on his thick leather gloves, Edwin took one of the irons from the fire. He hustled over to the animal and applied it quickly. The hide sizzled and blackened with the heat and smoke twisted up into the air. It read:
B + C
. The smell of burning hair was strong.
 

“Alright now, take ‘em off,” Casey instructed.

Letting go of the steer's leg, Steve picked up a handsaw lying near the fire. It took a few passes on each side to dehorn the unhappy beast.

After Steve got the horns off, Casey relaxed his hold and let the steer jump up. It ran right back into the herd, kicking at the air.

“How many are we taking to town?” Steve asked him.

“Everything in the cow line that can walk,” Casey said, wiping dust from his eyes. “Little calves, big calves, mama cows, bull stags. The lot of ‘em.”

Edwin propped the spent iron back in the fire so it could get hot again. There were several irons in the fire, ready to use.

“We done cut out the yearlings and the 2-year olds, mebbe the last one right there,” LG said from the saddle. “Rest of them beeves are branded already.”

Casey stepped up to the black calf LG had roped and easily bulldogged it to the muddy ground. The whole area was a cold muddy mess. With a quick movement Steve unlooped LG's rope from its hind feet. He took hold of a leg and stretched it out for the brand. Edwin took a new iron and stepped up to use it.

“Hey, Ima!” LG called out over the herd. “Any mavericks over there?”

A hired hand named Ira sat his horse quietly. He turned and frowned deeply at LG. On impulse, he reached up and twisted the end of his trailing mustache.

“It's
Ira
,” he called back. “Name's Ira.”
 

Ira was a droopy-hatted cowpuncher who spoke in monotone — and often monosyllables. He stared forlornly at LG. Ira was from Tulsa, Oklahoma, born in the saddle. His father was a horse breeder, and horses were all Ira knew. At the cookfire, LG told Emmanuel that Ira must have been kicked in the head at least once at some point, which must have knocked out his smarts. Emmanuel knew he was teasing but like usual chose not to josh back. Emmanuel was always careful not to josh around too much, especially with hired hands he did not know. He never met Ira before. Of course, neither had LG, but that did not stop him from joshing the man.

Casey let the black calf go. Jumping and kicking, it ran straight back over to its mama.

Not so quietly, LG said to Casey, “Not sure where Til pulled these waddies from. Must be slim pickings down at them stockyards. I suspect Blocker hired on all the good ‘uns.”

Casey gave him a sharp glance from under his hat brim. Ira was barely twenty steps away, still twisting his mustache forlornly.

“LG, I swear.”

“That ole boy can't hear us! Don't look so guilty,” LG said with a smile. “He'll suspect you're talking about him.”

“Ain't you just the clown,” Casey muttered dryly.

Edwin stepped up to Casey and took off his hat. His hair was matted and dripping. A clear line could be seen where the dirt and sweat stopped and his clean white scalp started. Half of his forehead was pale as the moon.

“Fire sure burning me up.”

The kid was breathing pretty heavily. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Even with the cold front, all the men were drenched in sweat from the morning's work — but Edwin had the added burden of standing over the branding fire all day.

“What's the count?” Steve asked. “Lost track after three hunnert head.”

“Ain't broke no record,” LG said flatly. He waved irritably at the flies.

“Bliss enough, it's a fairly pleasant day,” LG continued. “Last year we fought hail storms into June.”

Edwin picked up a tin cup and headed off toward the creek.

“Guess I'll go count my damn blessings.”

The sun never got a chance to melt off the creek ice, and the beaver pond was still frozen over. Crouching on his heels, Edwin smacked the tin cup against the ice and broke through, then dipped his cup into the running water. As soon as it was full, he wasted no time draining it. He dipped it right back in and downed it again.

After four cups, Edwin stood up. Cold water dripped off his chin. He started to walk back towards Casey but swayed and checked himself.

LG was watching him from the saddle with an amused look.

Edwin ran a hand over his face, eyes widening for a moment. He took a step towards the other cowpunchers, but then bent over and folded his arms across his stomach.

“Alright?” Casey called.

“Dizzy. Hard to see.”

Casey went over and helped him straighten up. Together, they walked away from the herd, Casey holding him up as they went along. They made it to the forest edge and in among a stand of budding aspen where Edwin promptly collapsed and did not move.

“That crick was mountain snow a couple hours ago,” Casey said when he came back.

“Here comes Lee,” Steve pointed out.

Lee, another one of the hired hands, rode up just then and halted his horse. He crossed his arms over the saddle horn and relaxed for the first time that day.

“Rufe out there still?” Steve asked him. Rufe was Steve's younger brother.

“Riding herd. With Davis.”

“Well, boys, we're gonna get a late start tonight,” LG announced. “We'll spend the rest of the afternoon tallying — probably start this herd around supper time at this dandy pace.”

All the cowmen looked up in surprise.

“Tonight?” Lee asked. Til had said the B-Cross was in a hurry when he had hired on, but he thought they would at least get a night to rest up before trailing the cattle.

“Yep,” LG said.

Lee dismounted. All of them took tin cups over to the creek, but were cautious after watching Edwin drink too much too quick after such a hard morning. They took care to sip it slow and easy.

Casey went over to check on Edwin. The rest of the crew trailed over to the trees to sit for a few minutes. Even LG got off his horse. He brought over a sack full of jerked beef, which he passed around. After spending half the day branding, they all managed to stay pretty warm with the work — but now that they were sitting still, the chill crept right in.

 “This is Colorada, boys,” LG said in a proverbial tone. “One day it's winter time cold. Next day it's summer time hot. You don't like the weather? Wait a bit and it'll turn.”

The sack of beef strips made its way around the group. Another rider trotted up just then and got off his horse. It was Davis.

“Have a bite, Davis,” Steve said to him and passed the sack over. “My brother heading in?”

“Not too far behind me.”

Several magpies swooped in and perched on the tree limbs overhead. One came down and hopped right up to Edwin, cawing at him for something to eat. It clearly expected a handout and was not shy about asking. Edwin tore off a tiny corner and flicked it at him. The other birds immediately flew down to the ground near Edwin.

“Hear what Til was saying about Blocker?” Casey asked.

“Yep — the XIT,” said LG.

“What's that?” Lee asked them. “What exit?”

Casey began drawing letters in the snow as he spoke.

“X, I, T…the XIT.”

“New brand,” LG explained. “Down in Tejas. Largest cattle operation I ever heard of. Three million acres! Had to ask Til twice.”

“That's half the Panhandle,” Casey added, nodding for emphasis.

Edwin sat up, still looking unwell. Casey's dog, Hopper, came over to the magpies to see if they were eating something he wanted. The birds spread their wings and swooped back up into the tree, cawing at the dog.

“Well, damn, what else did Til say?” Edwin asked weakly.

“Apparently, just here in November they bought up over a hundred thousand cattle,” LG explained. “Get this…paid out one an' a third
million
dollars.”
 

“Who on God's green earth can afford something like that?” Edwin asked, unable to get his mind around the sum.

“Syndicate up in Chicago, story goes,” Casey told him. “Rounded up the funds. Folks all the way in England buying up stock.”

“It's big, boy,” LG told him. “They're stringing fence right now. Digging wells, putting up windmills. Nothing like it.”

“Til's worried,” Casey said. “Thinks with the Great Die-Up in Wyoming and Dakota, the XIT's gonna move quick to take over the market. And the King. Small outfits better move now if we hope to keep up with the game.”

At that point Ira walked up to the group, having emerged from the herd on foot. His side was smeared with mud and snow and the crown of his hat was mashed in.

“LG, ain't no more yearlings,” Ira announced. “Looks like we done roped ‘em all.”

Davis looked him over.

“Where's your horse?”

Ira flushed. He removed his hat, slapping at his legs to knock the mud off. He was silent for a few moments, pulling at his mustache. The breeze kicked up for a few seconds, causing the budding branches overhead to stir. LG grinned broadly, knowingly.

“Where'd he throw you?”

Ira looked abashed.

“Somewhere betwixt the first n' second jump. I cannot recollect.”

 

Chapter 9

Grand Lake

 

“Bet there's a slew of ordnance locked up in there,” Vincent mentioned to Bill, indicating the sheriff's office. “No one's going to bother us. This town is quiet.”

He smirked, adding, “Quiet as a church.”

Bill wasn't sure what the time was, but he suspected people would be letting out of church at any moment. The Methodists were right there on the corner, and he could guess this town had its share of Baptists and Presbyterians. This seemed like a churchy town to Bill. All morning long he was forced to listen to hymns humming through the thin courthouse walls.

“Jailbreak on a Sunday morning,” Bill cooed and smoothed his hair, checking his reflection in the glass. “Lord have mercy! Where are the boys?”

“Out by the lake. Granger probably gut-shot them Mexicans by now. Ned's leading that sheriff to the wrong side of nowhere, even as we speak.”

Pushing open the courthouse door, Vincent strolled nonchalantly into the brisk air. The clouds were certainly darker than they were an hour ago, and collecting fast. The sun had disappeared entirely and Mount Craig's summit was gone now, too, cut off by the lowering sky.

Digging his hands deep in his pockets, Vincent headed straight toward the sheriff's office. Bill let him lead the way — he wanted to get his bearings. Those lawmen had brought him in tied to the back of a mule. Not only was that a humiliating mode of travel but it also prevented him from getting a look at where he was.

“No one's about,” Vincent said, feeling good. “Let's go knock.”

It took a minute to cross the wide street, then up the short staircase onto the landing. Bill turned and looked around. A cold breeze blew across the frozen lake. He watched swirls roll off the white surface. The swirls swept right towards them. Bill hunched up as it hit, but Vincent wasn't paying attention and hooted with the shivers. Bill frowned at his old compadre. At least the man had a coat on. Bill didn't know where his was and wasn't sure what that damn sheriff did with it after they locked him up. And of course his hat was long gone.