Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (6 page)

The front door was locked up, but Vincent had Griff's keys. The first six he tried didn't work.

“What's taking so long?” Bill asked impatiently. He cupped his hands and blew into them several times.

Vincent finally found the right one, and they went inside immediately. The sheriff's office was so hot, it was like entering a sweat lodge. Bill saw why. A cast iron woodstove sat against one wall — and it was pumping out the heat! Bill went right over and nearly hugged it. He could imagine the deputy relaxing here all morning long — while all he gave Bill was a ratty wool blanket. They could have at least left him his coat!

Vincent peeked out the front window. The street was still cold, windy and empty. He pulled the thick green curtains closed. Bill turned so his backside could thaw. Curiously, he studied the office. It was not much of an office, really. There was a desk, a cabinet, two benches, a coat rack, the wood stove and a closet. He saw a nice coat hanging on the coat rack and tried it on. It was a thick rancher's coat with what appeared to be buffalo lining. There were gloves tucked down in one sleeve, and they would certainly be helpful. What a pleasant surprise. It was a nicer coat than he had in the first place. Given his poor treatment, and the fact that his breakfast was on the floor back in the courthouse cell, at least he was getting a decent coat out of all this.

Vincent wasted no time and went to the desk, yanking open both drawers — one with each hand. The drawers slid right out and dropped heavily onto the floor, spilling paper sheaves and pencils everywhere.

Bill gave Vincent a reproachful look.

But Vincent merely shrugged off Bill's reproof.

“No need for tippety toes,” Vincent told him. “All the good folk are in their pews.”

The buffalo coat seemed to fit Bill fine. Maybe a little tight when he stretched his arms, but it would work. He found a pipe in one pocket and a leather pouch in the other. He opened the pouch and smelled the tobacco. It had cherry undertones.

“And in their bide,” Bill mused, “
Hell is empty, and all the devils are here
.”
 

Vincent held his breath. Bill was quoting Shakespeare! Did he know Vincent had gone to the theatre in Creede that one time? Vincent thought he had gotten in and out of there without any of the boys knowing. He glanced at Bill who was sniffing the pipe bowl. Or was this coincidence? Bill
did
seem to know most of the things that went on. Vincent watched him from the corner of his eye, but Bill did not seem interested in taking the reference any further.

Vincent relaxed, and returned to ransacking. He scattered the papers around with his boot and then went to the closet and turned the knob but it was locked. He picked up the desk chair and smashed it against the door. The door knob fell off but the door still would not open.

“Here we go,” Bill said.

In one shadowy corner was a tall walnut cabinet. Gently, he ran his fingers over the smooth veneer and black iron latchwork. It was a tall cabinet and ran all the way to the ceiling.

Giving up on the closet, Vincent came over to get a closer look.

“Gun cabinet?”

“Keys.”

Vincent handed Griff's keys to Bill. There were about ten keys on the ring. Bill fanned them out but they all looked the same in this light. He picked the first one and tried it in the lock. It did not fit so he tried another. Vincent leaned in over his shoulder. He had already been through the keys once at the front door, and remembered one of the keys was black and fancy.

“Try that one,” he said, pointing at the fancy black key.

The front door opened and two men walked inside the office.

Bill and Vincent turned around.

It was Sheriff Emerson Greer and Ben Leavick, the mercantile store owner and operator.

They stopped in midstride.

The moment wore off.

Emerson Greer suddenly bolted across the room and tackled Bill, knocking him hard to the floor. Bill rolled around frantically, trying to break free. He landed several punches, but the sheriff grabbed onto Bill's wrists and hung on. In the scuffle, Greer's sidearm clattered out of its holster and was knocked under the desk.

Ben Leavick was absolutely shocked. The very same prisoner they locked up in the courthouse cell was standing right there, rooting around the sheriff's gun cabinet. He didn't know who the other fellow was, but it didn't matter. The shock dissipated, and Ben made a run at Vincent.

But Vincent remembered he had Griff's pistol tucked in his belt, so he pulled it out as fast as he could. He had just enough time to club Ben on the forehead. Ben's knees gave out — but he fell into Vincent's legs and knocked him down like a bowling pin.

Blood leaked down Ben's forehead and ran in his eyes. He reached up to feel his face, and his hand came away slick with blood. As soon as he saw it, Ben felt his stomach turn weak.

Somehow, Vincent managed to hang onto Griff's gun. He scrambled up to his knees and noticed that Ben was distracted by his bloody hand, so he leaned right over and clubbed him on the head a second time. Ben crumpled to the floor.

Getting to his feet, Vincent went around the desk to check on Bill — who was still wrestling with the sheriff on the floor. Vincent pointed the gun at Greer, but he could not get a clear shot and wasn't sure he should shoot even if he got one. What if the bullet passed right through the sheriff and hit Bill? What about the sound of the discharge itself? Bill had been fairly adamant about not shooting the deputy back in the courthouse.

Vincent was not sure what to do. He tried waiting for the struggle to play itself out, but they were still rolling around fighting and it did not look like it was going to end. While he thought it over, Vincent uncocked the hammer and lowered the gun. Perhaps Bill should just fight this thing out himself. He sat on the corner of the desk and watched.

“What's wrong with you?” Bill said through gritted teeth. “Shoot him!”

“Don't want to plug you in the process.”

From his position on the corner of the desk, all Vincent could see of Bill was his angry eyes peering over the sheriff's shoulder. The room was basically quiet, except the sound of bootheels thumping against the floorboards.

“Shoot him!”

“Would be nice,” Vincent said.

Emerson Greer realized another man was standing over him with a gun. Twisting, he kicked out and caught Vincent's shin, causing Vincent to slip off the desk.

On the other side of the room, Ben's eyes fluttered. He slowly got to his knees. His vision was blurry. Ben wasn't sure where he was or why he could not see clearly. Ben heard the scuffle and suddenly remembered he had blood in his eyes. Using his sleeve, he wiped his face so he could see better.

Vincent did not notice that Ben Leavick had gotten up. He had taken his place on the desk corner again, and was enjoying the fight. Every few seconds, the two men rolled across the floor one way or another. Bill would roll over and carry the sheriff along with him. Then the sheriff would roll and take Bill with him. It was entertaining.

“Shoot him!”

“What if it goes on through and I end up shooting you? You won't like that, Bill.”

Emerson did not want to be shot in the back, so he rolled on over once more, dragging Bill around on top of him. Emerson thought it would be better to have Bill between himself and Vincent's gun. He realized what a bad situation this was.

Emerson broke his grip and grabbed Bill by the throat. He squeezed as hard as he could and Bill's face turned red and he sputtered.

“Alright…seen enough of this,” Vincent said in a tone of exasperation. He stepped forward and wriggled the gun between the two men's bodies. He pressed the barrel against Emerson's chest and fired.

The discharge was much louder than he expected — the small room and everything in it seemed to rattle.

Emerson's grip loosened at once. He collapsed on the floor.

Bill staggered up to his feet, coughing, and hunched there trying to breathe. He pressed his hand over his left ear.

“Blew my hearing!” Bill shouted angrily at Vincent.

“I'm shot!” Emerson called out.

Ben snapped out of the fog that had filled his head. He wiped his eyes once more on his sleeve and looked around. He saw Emerson Greer lying on the floor near the desk. Bill and Vincent were standing over him and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room.

“Black muley son of a bitch!” Ben yelled. He leaped to his feet and ran headlong at Vincent.

Bill saw him coming.

“Watch out!”

Vincent turned around and pounded his fist into Ben's eye. Ben went down for a third time, hitting his head on the desk. Outside, they heard a door slam.

“Quiet, quiet!” Vincent whispered sharply.

He immediately crossed the room, parting the thick green curtains with his finger.

People were coming.

He took a deep breath to compose himself, ran his fingers through his hair, set the gun on the window ledge and stepped out into the chilly air.

The barkeeper, Otto, was running up from the Grand Placer Saloon. He had a look of clear concern on his face. Vincent knew he must have heard the gunshot. Someone else was coming up the street from the opposite direction, from the apothecary. It was Roy Caldwell.

It was play-acting time. Vincent stood on the landing and leaned far over the rail, making a big show of peering around the sheriff's office, down the side street, as if the gunshot had come from there.

“Hear that?” Vincent called to Otto.

Both men ran up to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him questioningly. Vincent pointed down the side street. They followed his gesture but did not see what he was pointing at. That was, of course, because there was nothing to see.

“Everything alright?” Otto asked.

“Heard a gunshot!” Roy Caldwell exclaimed.

“We did, too!” Vincent said innocently. “Came from down there, somewhere. Your deputy just went to check on it.”

Otto and Roy looked at each other. Something did not seem right to either of them. The gunshot sounded like it came from inside. Not outside.

“Griff?” Otto said uncertainly. “Well, then.”

Vincent gave them a confident smile.

“That's right. Griff. He just ran off down there to see about it.”

“Who is this?” Roy asked Otto, pointing at Vincent.

“He was in the Placer earlier.”

“Mr. Judas Furlong — Rocky Mountain News,” Vincent said. “Doing an interview with your deputy. Quite a fellow.”

Once more, curiously, Otto looked down the side street. He did not see or hear anything from that direction. Griff was nowhere to be seen.

“Probably someone oiling their gun and it went off, you know how it goes,” Vincent said, tipping his hat. “Take care now.”

“And you, sir,” Otto replied. “Come with me, Roy. I've got chili on the menu.”

“Chili?”

Roy was confused. Why would he want chili? He had a nice stove in the apothecary where he cooked all his meals. He was a lifelong bachelor and did not even own a home. Roy lived in the apothecary — he had built a nice room in the loft — and had everything he needed right there.

“White-tail deer. Best take of the season. Come on,”

For some reason, mainly the look in Otto's eyes, Roy decided not to argue. They walked down to the saloon together. Vincent watched them for a minute and then stepped back inside the sheriff's office.

Bill stood near the window, watching through the curtains.

“Don't know if they took that or not,” Bill supposed.

He stepped over Sheriff Emerson Greer, whose chest was bubbling with blood. Greer was not making any noises, but he was alert — his eyes followed Bill wherever he went in the room.

Kneeling, Bill picked up the keys from the floor and noticed Emerson's gun under the desk. Bill looked down at the sheriff and shrugged.

“Sorry, bud.”

Bill took the gun, stepped over Greer, and went back to the gun cabinet. He tried the black key that Vincent had pointed out earlier and the lock clicked. Bill was relieved to find a variety of Colts, Winchesters, and a sizable cache of ammunition. Vincent leaned in and whistled.

“Pick your treats,” he said. “And off we go.”

 
 

Chapter 10

Ward

Colorado

 

“Julianna Purcell!”

Josephine's face sparkled, and she waved one arm high above her head.

The Miser's Brewery was a tempest. So many people were inside that no one could even hear the three-piece band. Between the banjo, mandolin or violin, none of the strings made it over the chatter. It was snowing outside, and the shawl covering Julianna's head was flecked with white powder. She pulled off the damp weave and ran her fingers through her long chestnut hair. It was much warmer inside the building than it was outside in the chilly air.

“I've found gossips and crows,” Julianna announced lightly. Besides Josephine, there were two other women at the table. “Josephine. Vera, Hazel,” she counted aloud. “Ella is absent.”

“Corralling a young maverick,” Josephine said.

“Spinning the wedding ring,” Hazel added with her quirky smile, twirling her finger around in a circular pattern — she was miming a trick roper's loop.

Julianna sat down in a chair they had saved for her. It hadn't been easy to save the chair, either. Many people in the big room were standing, it was so crowded. Sipping coffees and teas, the ladies were enjoying the overall bustle of the restaurant when Julianna arrived.

“If anyone can take the snarls out of a rope,” Hazel went on, “she is as sportsmanlike a woman as any of the cowboys on the range.”

Vera shook her head and muttered, “Cutting more than she can brand.”

Julianna just smiled. These were all friends here, even if they chided one another.