Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (7 page)

“Look over there,” Josephine said, nodding toward the far corner.

The Miser's Brewery was one of the few two-story buildings in town. The eatery was upstairs, which afforded a view. A large picture window filled up half the south wall and overlooked the wooded mountain valley. White blots of snow dropped past the glass.

“What should govern my attention?” Julianna asked, her eyes searching the crowd.

“Corner table.”

With a smile and touch of curiosity, Julianna shifted forward in her seat to see better. Vera and Hazel leaned apart so she could see past them.

“I see a solitary man,” she observed. “Platinum blonde hair. Leonine mustache.”

The man she spotted was dining alone and dressed immaculately. He looked pretty gaunt. She noticed his dark eyes were very direct, and he was quietly measuring everyone around him as he ate. He had not yet noticed the ladies watching him, or if he had he was ignoring them.

“Thin frame. A very fine-looking suit,” she went on. “And the gentleman likes his whiskey.”

He lifted a kerchief to his mouth and started coughing violently. They could hear the fit, even over all the noise. Julianna still couldn't hear the band, but she
could
hear the sandy cough.

“And the gentleman is wracked with consumption,” Hazel pointed out in a hushed tone. She was obviously excited.

“Must I trace it out plainly?” Josephine said impatiently. “John…Henry…”

Julianna turned to her sharply.

“Holliday?”

The women all shushed her at the same time — their collective hush drew several sidelong looks. But Julianna only giggled. She knew they were trying to be coy, and she was deliberately being louder than she needed to be. It was fun.

“A dentist in Ward! How novel.”

Julianna's voice was playful, but Josephine's face went red.

“That's really him. I'm
not
mistaken!”

Somewhere outside, a dull explosion echoed through the mountains. Ward was one of the many mining towns in the backcountry of Colorado — and detonations were so commonplace no one noticed.

“Maybe these miners need dental exams,” Julianna said with a spritely look around her. “Hygienists they are not.”

“Something tells me he's not pulling teeth these days,” Vera muttered, darkly. Vera was a mutterer. She twisted around in her seat, frowning at Holliday.

Julianna sighed. They were all obsessed with this subject. In fact, the ladies seemed to be in an unalterably serious mood. Julianna didn't want to be serious. She had driven her buckboard all the way up the canyon from Gold Hill. It had been a month since she was in Ward last — the biggest town in the area, and the closest thing to big city culture she had. The Miser's Brewery served a delicious roast and scalloped potato dish, and she had been looking forward to an easy time with good friends and a tasty meal. She sighed a second time.

“This is not a terminus town,” she told them, giving up. “No railroad, no gambling house. Why would such a man alight here?”

“Avoidance,” Hazel offered. “From pursuants…men of darker intent.”

From her tone it was clear Hazel hoped that was not the case. Julianna hoped it
was
. A little excitement sounded appealing.

“Heard about that fellow Ryan?” Vera said in her muttery voice. “Denver — last fall. Holliday dealt cards at Babbit's house. Ryan pulls a gun. But Holliday has a knife hidden on a lanyard, hung about his neck and no one knew it was there…until Ryan got cut up dead.”

How delightful. Where was the waiter? The miners at the next table had big plates of roast and it smelled good. Julianna looked hopefully toward the bar.

“Ward's no boom town. Probably on his way up to Leadville,” Josephine reasoned. “Faro. Man's a vulture. Feeds off those poor souls trying to scratch out a living in the placers and dredges.”

Hazel turned and threw Holliday another curious look.

“Doesn't look too healthy to me.”

Across the room, he was still trying to suppress the coughing fit. Holliday's face was white and his frail-looking body shook with the effort. It seemed like it was not going to end.

Finally, the talk turned.

“And how is the Commodore this month?” Hazel asked her, suddenly polite and proper.

“Well enough,” Julianna replied, brightening. “Still the reclusive curmudgeon we all know and love.”

Josephine was still put out over her friend's lack of interest in Doc Holliday. Josephine had been the first one to recognize the man, and the other two had gotten excited about it. Why didn't Julianna? Things like this did not happen in Ward. It was a boring little town. It made her mad. Plus, Julianna and Josephine were closer friends than they were with Hazel and Vera. She felt a mean streak coming on, leaned over and looked Julianna in the eye.

“This world is rapidly changing, my dear. Your father is stuck in the old days — he needs to get with the program
.”
 

Julianna felt her stomach tighten up. Usually when they all got together like this, the talk was lighthearted gossip. But sometimes it was bickery — times when it took a sour turn and rolled on like a runaway train. Julianna realized this was one of those runaway train talks. Any good humor she had when she came in the door drained away.

The other two joined in with Josephine.

“Colorado is a state now,” Hazel said crisply. “Custer's dead.”

Vera nodded and said, “Sand Creek was over
ten years
ago.”

Julianna frowned. That fluttery feeling in her stomach got worse.

“Well, now. I'll try and remember to pass on your sentiments. I'm sure my father will appreciate the good news.”

She tried to wave down the bartender, since the waiter was on the far side of the room. Julianna didn't want to talk about her father with these women anymore. Why were they all in such an abrasive mood, anyway? She did not care one whit about Custer, Sand Creek or Doc Holliday or his dry raspy cough. All she had wanted was a good meal, one she didn't have to cook — and some light conversation with friends. But now what she really wanted was a big glass of wine.

It was true her father was a colorful figure. Up until last year, the Commodore used to spend time in Ward and succeeded in making a spectacle of himself. Everyone knew who he was. That didn't help. He was a little eccentric and Julianna knew it, but the subject of her father was still very delicate for her anyway.

The look on her face must have conveyed what she was thinking.

“Oh, honey,” Josephine said gently, deflating. She shot Vera and Hazel a harsh glare. She touched Julianna's forearm in a kind way. “We meant nothin' by it.”

But Julianna turned her eyes to the large picture window and the snow falling outside. It was late in the day and only a matter of time before the sun went down.

“The tea is splendid this evening,” Hazel said. “Codfish on the menu.”

 

Chapter 11

Beaver Creek

 

Whenever the cloud cover was low and dark like this, Casey knew it was just a matter of time before it either sleeted, hailed or lightninged. Just as he started to say something to LG, it started spitting sleet up and down the valley. All the early wildflowers sagged with it — the larkspur, lousewort, the astor. April sure was a fickle time of the year, Casey surmised, and slid off his horse.

“Need me one of these,” Edwin told Casey, indicating his slicker.

He came over to where LG and Casey were standing, with his hands jammed in his coat pockets. Edwin had lost a button somewhere and was using thread from the chuckwagon to hold it together.

“Need you a thump on the head,” LG said to him.

Just the day before, it had been sunny and bright. Now here it was, damp and gray, with a stillness hanging in the air. LG and Casey both unfurled their slickers. Edwin noticed Casey wearing his the other night and had been wondering about it ever since.

“What is this damn thing anyways?”

“Fish slicker,” Casey told him.

He ran his arms through the sleeves and thumbed the buttons into place. The entire thing ran from his neck to the tops of his boots, camel-yellow with a narrow red collar. LG's was identical except black.

Edwin reached over and touched Casey's sleeve.

“Feels waxy or something.”

“They wear these on the high seas, them sailors,” LG told him.

“Keeps the rain out purty good,” Casey said. “Snow, too.”

“This time of the year, up here in God's country,” LG went on, “surprised we ain't got hail pecking on us.”

Their hats were getting matted with wet sleet. LG flicked his hat brim to dislodge what he could. Edwin could see the hired cowhands loitering near the herd. The cattle were bunched up in a wide bend of the creek. Even from this short distance, the falling sleet made the herd look blurry.

“Not the best weather for this,” Casey said, looking back at the herd. “But I suppose we best string ‘em out — up the valley. My note papers gonna be soggy.”

“Could have been
branding
in this shit,” Edwin observed, sagely.
 

“Yep.”

“Gotta swap my cutting horse for my circle horse,” LG announced. “A'fore we get to tallying.”

LG remounted his sorrel, careful to drape the billows of his slicker to cover over his saddle. He clicked his tongue, and the horse carried him away. Edwin and Casey watched him go. The sleet quickly blurred him out, too.

“Come on,” Casey said to Edwin. “Let's watch this.”

The two of them climbed back on their horses and followed LG to the corral. When they got near the bunkhouse, they caught sight of the orange cookfire flames, sputtering. Emmanuel was huddled over it, feeding in branches to keep it going. He was too busy to even notice them go by.

“Hey Gyp!” LG called. “Lend me a hand.”

The new wrangler, Gyp — an older man with thin silver hair and a tall sugarloaf hat — came over to help while LG got the tack off his sorrel. He released the cinch strap, pulled it up and draped it over the saddle. He carried the saddle over to the wet fence and perched it on the top rail.

“Got that ol' boy?”

“I got him.”

Gyp had a purple polka-dot silk neckerchief wrapped loosely around his neck. He dipped his chin down into it for a minute to warm up. His nose was red with the cold, and he had been sneezing all morning. So much so, that Emmanuel had given him a bottle of
Famous Francis' Cure-All Ointment
to sip from. Emmanuel bought the ointment at a traveling circus in Omaha two seasons prior from a dark man named Suneil. Suneil told Emmanuel he was born in Calcutta but raised in Boston, before joining the circus as a snake charmer. He also told the cook that the ointment cured him of snake poison, after all frequent bites were hazards of the trade, so surely it would work on arthritic knuckles and the backdoor trots.

LG took his rope and slipped into the corral. Shaking it out, he stepped towards the remuda. The horses were wary — none of them ever liked being caught.

Gyp held the sorrel by the bridle, watching as LG moved slowly into the horse herd.

“How's our jigger boss?” Casey asked him.

“He's doing alright,” Gyp replied, talking about himself in the third person.

The horses skittered around like fish in a stock tank.

It was good to have all this help. Whenever Til brought on new hands, he frequently chose pairs who were already friendly. Lee and Davis used to ride together up in Estes Park. Rufe and Steve McGonkin were brothers. Gyp knew Ira — at one point, they both worked down at the Iliff Ranch and knew each other from those days. Til hired them in pairs, which was his normal practice.

“I can see this cavvy has the lion's share of half-broke broncs and spoilt outlaws,” Gyp said and smiled.

“Aw, just our winter mounts,” Casey told him. “Of course, half of them ought be condemned.”

“This sorrel right here — one of the finest cutting horses I ever saw,” Gyp said with genuine admiration.

Casey nodded.

“The man knows his horseflesh.”

The horses suddenly broke into a run, circling the corral and kicking up clods of mud as they passed by. LG stepped after them quietly. He shook out a loop and had his eye on one horse in particular: all black except a stark white face.

“Going after Specter,” Casey rightly noted.

LG slowly rotated the wide loop over his head several times. On the final turn he whipped it hard and stepped in to let it fly. The loop dropped around the horse's neck, and immediately Specter bolted. But LG leaned into it, holding on tight and digging in his heels. The other horses scattered, but LG had the one he wanted.

“Someone hold him down.”

Gyp brought LG's sorrel into the corral and cut him loose. Then he eared down the black so LG could go get his saddle on him. LG cinched it tight and slipped a bridle on. Then he took a wide step over Specter's back and settled into place, gathering the reins in his hand.

“Sorriest horse I ever forked!” LG shouted and nodded.

Gyp let go and ran for the rail.

Specter, the black horse with the stark white face, wasted no time in scrambling up. Crow-hopping, twisting about, the horse went at it — trying hard to throw LG. But the cowman just waved his hat and whooped, sitting easy in the saddle.

The capering went on for some time. Edwin, Casey and Gyp watched in amusement.

“
Hoo-ee!
” Edwin shouted.

Specter pitched high and twisted. As he did, LG's slicker flapped and popped — which of course just made the horse pitch even harder. He wanted to shake the rider off and wasted no effort to make it happen. Quite suddenly, Specter quit pitching and began racing around the corral — hoping to rake off LG's knees on the fenceline.