Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave (19 page)

Come on, Casey thought,
come on!
 

His horse was stalled between the herd and the ravine.

Gritting his teeth, Casey slid off. He could feel Bill pointing a gun at his back, radiating like heat off a stove. He did not need to see it to know it.

Bark spattered apart, just past his head. Bill had missed and hit one of the tree trunks instead. There was still time, then. If he could just slide down the slope and get to the river, Casey knew he would be okay.

Looking down, he saw the sunlight flickering on the cold water.

 
 

Chapter 41

 

Jim Everitt and Ian Mitchell were dead. Their bodies were sprawled on the embankment, right by the mules, staring up at the sky. Several large mailbags lay on the ground, too, dumped out and scattered.

Lem landed in a heap on top one of the mailbags. A fleshy twist of intestine oozed out of the big hole in his side. LG's heirloom .44 had in fact functioned properly after all.

LG trotted over to the stagecoach and looked at the bodies and the envelopes.

He heard another gunshot.

Blue powder smoke boiled up over the stage.

LG checked his loads. He had five left, but he didn't have another cylinder if he ran out. His shot was buried somewhere in his saddle bags — but there was no time to sit around re-packing, even if he could get to it. LG was still surprised the gun had worked at all.

Granger jumped out of the coach and stared down at Lem's body. Granger had several envelopes in his hands and looked confused. It had been a quiet afternoon up till then. Bill and Vincent had shot the drivers and they were all having a pleasant time going through the mail. It was like Christmas. They found a lot of gold dust and paper money. Ned even found a wad of cash on Ian Mitchell, and Bill took a fancy pocketwatch off of Jim Everitt. Now Christmas was spoiled and Lem had just fallen from the sky, deader than a fence post.

When he saw LG, Granger dropped the envelopes and made a grab for his own gun. In that moment, LG realized he didn't trust the .44 or the jittery horse he was sitting on. With a jerk he pulled Specter around and dug his spurs in. The gelding capered a bit, and then bolted down Lefthand Canyon.

 

Chapter 42

 

The ruts were bad. Julianna drove the buckboard along slowly. It was too rough to go any faster.

“New springs next trip,” Julianna said tartly and gritted her teeth. The buckboard's springs did not seem to have any bounce or give. Coming down the road behind her, she caught the sound of hoofbeats and looked around to see who was coming.

It was Deputy Griff Allen, and he was leading the posse at a trot. All of them were on horseback except Roy Caldwell, who drove his own buckboard. As they got closer, Griff slowed and waved at everyone to slow down, too. The road was narrow, and they had to squeeze past Julianna to get by.

Griff saw the buckboard was being driven by a young lady, and even though they were on the hunt it was only right to be courteous — it was a narrow road, and perhaps she had a spooky horse. Griff saw no sense in startling the lady's appaloosa.

Roy was glad they were all slowing down. Like Julianna's, his buckboard had unforgiving springs and he was sore. A wagon had been voted a necessity for this manhunt. Since he owned a buckboard for his apothecary, which he regularly used for supply runs to Idaho Springs, Roy volunteered. But traveling at this pace, day after day, was rough…and he was starting to wonder if he could get someone else to drive it for an afternoon. Now that they were slowing to a walk, Roy decided he would ask around. Griff had kept a pretty unrelenting pace, and once they got going again there may not be another chance to talk to anyone until well after dark.

“Pardon us, miss,” Griff said politely, as he eased by.

The posse filed into a line to get past. Julianna stopped her wagon while they passed. She noticed Griff Allen and Ben Leavick, the first two, looked pretty bad. Griff's face was bruised and his nose swollen. Both of Ben's eyes were black and drooped.

Julianna had driven this road so many times over the past few years that she never thought too much about her safety. None of these men gave her a bad feeling which was a relief. Except the last rider, just before Roy Caldwell's wagon went by — it was Red Creek Mincy. Julianna watched him uncertainly. Though he never looked directly at her, she felt her skin prickle. The man had dead fish eyes. Vacant, cold and empty.

It was a narrow fit for Roy's wagon, but he knew he could squeeze past Julianna's buckboard without scraping wheels if he got his own wheels up on the embankment a little.

“I'll get it by, ma'am. Don't you worry none.”

Roy spent a good deal of his youth as a freighter — prior to the success he had had with the apothecary. Only once a month did he have to make the long trip down to the train depot in Idaho Springs. He preferred to stay inside where the woodstove was. The whole store stayed nice and warm all winter long, and Roy found that winters near the Great Divide were getting to be hard on him. But Sheriff Greer had been shot dead right up the street from his store.

When Griff announced he was setting off after the killers, all of the town leaders stepped up. Merle Hastings was a big ranch don — the man hadn't even hesitated when Griff asked, and even volunteered his cowboys and bought them all new Winchesters.

Roy had known Emerson Greer, of course — mainly as a customer, but the man had been their sheriff for quite some time and to get gutshot on a Sunday morning in his own office was a big blow to the community. So Roy offered up his buckboard. And now here he was, driving it down some narrow canyon, angling the wheels up a steep embankment.

Julianna held her breath while he inched past. Roy's old mule liked to start and stop in jerky movements, and it made her nervous to watch — especially since the ravine was on her side.

“This is old Clyde,” Roy mentioned to her. “He's blind in one eye, but don't you worry none. As sure-footed as they come.”

“I see,” she said. But the information wasn't exactly reassuring.

Coming off the embankment, blind-eye Clyde successfully made it past her, and pulled the wagon back onto the road. By this time, Griff was back to a trot and the posse was almost out of sight. Roy would have to catch up if he didn't want to lose them. He sighed. There had been no opportunity to ask anyone about trading places. If this road was as badly rutted the entire way down the canyon, the next town they came across he would certainly invest in some springs that actually sprung.

Julianna watched Roy until he disappeared around the next turn. She released the brake and clicked her tongue. The appaloosa stepped forward in the traces, and they began moving again at a casual pace.

“Haw-over,” she commanded. She wanted to get in the middle of the road. Parking next to the ravine had been a little nerve-wracking. She hoped no one else was coming up or down Lefthand Canyon for the rest of the day. She just wanted to go home. Although there was probably a pile of squirrels waiting to be skinned, once she got there.

 
 
 

Chapter 43

 

They passed the first few strays on the road. Griff thought that was odd. He had not seen any cowpunchers, and the cattle were obviously loose. As the posse rounded the next bend, black Polangus literally covered the road, and they had to ease past at a slow walk just to get through.

“Lost herd?” Ben asked Griff.

They passed the outlet to Spring Gulch. Looking up the draw, Griff saw a lot more Polangus and some Durham in the trees, rooting around in the low grass. But there were no riders. Griff wondered whose cows these were. Riding up close to one, he read the brand. It was fresh burnt on the all the yearlings: B + C.

“Heard of the B-Cross-C?”

“No,” replied Merle.

Griff figured Merle would know better than any of them. He was familiar with all the local cattle outfits, both big and small. But Colorado was a big state.

Up ahead, Griff saw the big granite outcrop. He led the way around the bend and saw the stagecoach sitting in the middle of the road. Several horses were standing near the ravine — they were saddled, too. Then Griff saw two bodies sprawled out on the ground. He rode over to take a look.

It was pretty clear these two were not getting up again. Ira's skull top was shot open and some brains were on the outside. Edwin was covered in dust and torn up pretty badly — Griff knew immediately it was from being trampled. Actually, he was surprised the kid wasn't worse off. He had seen men run down in a stampede and all they found afterward was a boot heel.

Griff looked around. He wondered what happened here. Whatever it was, it had just happened a little while ago. Fresh manure was everywhere, and the blood was wet and warm.

“They kilt some more folk! Damn them!” Ben cried out.

He was still outraged over how easily he had been overpowered in the sheriff's office. He should have
expected
the men they were hunting might circle back. Why wouldn't they? When they had their man locked up? Thick as thieves, the saying went. Ben should never have taken the task of tracking the getaways so lightly. Let alone josh and drink and cut up with Emerson, when they were on a serious manhunt. Maybe Emerson Greer would still be alive and Caroline Greer would not be a widow, and his own wife Meggy wouldn't have to console her every day. Now here were more dead men. Ben felt a wave of guilt.

“Check that coach,” Griff told Red Creek.

The two of them got off their horses and went to have a look.

Roy stepped out of his buckboard awkwardly and stretched. His back and tailbone hurt. He needed to move around, so he went over to look at Ira and Edwin. They were certainly dead, there was no question there. They looked like cowhands.

“Probably shot down without no warning,” he said to Merle, who was still in the saddle with a rifle in his hands.

But Merle was not listening. His eyes were working over the hillside. There could be riflemen up on that big outcrop, sighting them down even then. Or spread out among the trees. This was a good place to be attacked — the way the road bent around that granite bluff, it was a blind corner.

Roy realized he was not going to get a conversation out of Merle, let alone trade modes of transport, so he walked around to work out the stiffness. He looked down in the ravine.

“Griff!” he called out. “Got one in the river!”

He stood by the edge of the road and pointed.

Griff and Red Creek were standing over Jim Everitt and Ian Mitchell, and Lem's body sprawled out on the mail. Griff heard the tension in Roy's voice, so he hustled right over. From the road, they could all see someone was in fact lying in the creek. The bank had white crusty ice all along its edge, but the water flowed freely and loudly.

“Saw him move!” Roy shouted and pointed down at him again.

Merle snapped his fingers.

“Boys.”

Three of his ranch hands slid off their horses and put up their guns. The slope was steep, but they worked their way down by grabbing tree limbs and brush for balance.

It was Casey Pruitt, lying face up in the water.

The young men got down the slope and checked him over. It was obvious that Casey had been shot a couple times. His clothes were completely soaked with blood and river water. Casey's eyes fluttered.

“He ain't dead!”

“Well, get him outta the water!” Merle shouted back.

Ben, Merle, Griff, Roy, Red Creek, and the rest of Merle's boys watched them lift Casey up to his feet. He was dripping, too weak to stand, and was barely conscious as it was.

“Mercy,” Griff sighed.

They got Casey back up the slope and set him out on the ground. His skin was blue from lying in the cold water.

Griff heard a buckboard. He glanced up the road. It was the young lady they passed earlier. He raised his hands up and went over.

“Hold up, ma'am!”

 

Chapter 44

 

“He's coming to. Mister, how many were there? What did they look like?”

“Let him revive, Ben — for Pete's sake.”

Ben was leaning right over Casey, shaking him by the shoulders. Casey had trouble getting his eyes to focus. He shivered suddenly, like a wave had just washed over him. He rolled over onto his side and began coughing.

 “Stand back,” Julianna told the men, in a commanding tone.

The coughing fit passed. Pushing up on his elbow, Casey tried to get up, but his left arm gave way and he fell on the ground. Painfully, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the blue sky. Julianna knelt down beside him and pressed her palm to his forehead.

“What happened?” Casey asked.

“You been shot,” Griff told him.

Casey's shoulder felt like it was on fire, even though he was freezing cold. He had another hot spot in his chest, too. He felt around and discovered his fingers were wet with blood. He blinked and lowered his hand.

“Them murderers go on down the road then?” Ben demanded, impatient. “How many were they?”

But Casey was blank. Another wave of shivers ran through him and he folded his arms across his chest. He realized he was soaking wet.

“Did I fall in the creek?”

“Come on, mister!” Ben shouted. “Which way?”

“Hobble your lip,” Griff told him, irritated. “The man's down. Give him a chance.”

“They kilt Emerson Greer, didn't they?”

“I saw them,” Casey said. He felt woozy but tried sitting up again.

“Don't know how many,” he continued. “They shot…”

Casey's memory started coming back. He scrambled to his knees. Julianna stood up with him, holding his good arm for assistance. Griff stepped in to help, too. Squinting to see clearly, Casey looked around. He saw Ira and Edwin lying on the road and rushed over, falling to his knees. Casey squeezed his eyes shut.