Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave Read Free Page A

would not be gone long.

  
    Chapter 4
    Beaver Creek

    Shifting the reins to his right hand, Casey rode near the willows. He held out his free hand and let his fingers graze along the willow branches as he passed by. Casey had worked for many outfits over the last ten years — all in Colorado. And he loved willows and aspen and orange dirt and bits of quartz, and the pale blue sky. This was his country. Nighthawk on a winter shift would not change that high opinion.
    His dog ran alongside, trying to keep up with his horse. All Casey could hear was the bay’s breathing and the crunching snow beneath his hoofs. Casey tucked his chin into his scarf.
    In a bend of the creek, he caught sight of an orange flicker. It was the cookfire. Beyond the fire was a one-room log cabin — the ranch headquarters. The walls were dark pine chinked with white mortar and nearly invisible in the dim light. He could also make out the covered wagon parked by the corral, where the remuda was lined up at the rail watching him.
    On the potrack was a large steaming kettle. Tucked in the coals were two Dutch ovens, round and black and speckled with soot. Casey knew one of those was the 3-day beans. But there were no slap-jacks as he hoped.
    Casey rode up to the fire and just sat there for a minute smelling the woodsmoke. Hopper caught up and ran right over to Emmanuel, a large black man with a filthy apron around his waist. He welcomed the shaggy dog with a big grin.
    â€œHere ya go, pard,” the cook said and gave him a biscuit. “How’s that taste?”
    LG Pendleton stood in the shadowy doorway, leaning against the doorjamb with his hat in his hand. He used his fingers to comb through his hair and seated the hat firmly on his head.
    Finally, Casey dismounted, moving very slowly. He was sore. He immediately knelt down to a crouch, stretching. Sitting in the saddle all night made his legs cramp up but he only really felt it when he got back on the ground. LG lit a cigarette and called to Emmanuel:
    â€œHow about this tough ol’ puncher riding in. Looks like he’s been wrastlin’ injuns and a-tustlin’ grizz. Big night on the graveyard watch, I can read that sign.”
    â€œLG, sleep all cozy again?” Casey said wryly. “Never seem to get that short straw, do you.”
    LG laughed at him.
    â€œAnd chipper as a lark!”
    â€œCasey Pruitt,” Emmanuel announced. “There’s a-beans and biscuits fo’ ya. Pipin’ hot.”
    â€œOh, them biscuits are looking mighty tempting, Emmanuel.”
    Emmanuel tossed a yellow biscuit to Casey.
    â€œGonna cut my night horse loose and I’ll be back for coffee.”
    Reins in one hand, biscuit in another, Casey walked heavily towards the corral. The horses inside hung their faces curiously over the fenceline, ears perked up. They hoped he was bringing them grain but he wasn’t.  Casey’s bay nickered.  He was eager to get turned out and fed some grain himself.
    â€œHow come no one be a-eatin’ my beans?” Emmanuel asked LG. “There was a time when my beans was second to none.”
    â€œCamp cookie sure ain’t your calling,” LG said and clapped him on the shoulder. “You can rope a steer with a blindfold on, but you can’t seem to get a loop around a can of beans.”
    â€œIf it weren’t fer my damned ol’ black face, I’d be a-runnin’ my own outfit a long time ago.”
    â€œI know it, you know it. Every hand here knows it.”
    LG stepped up to the fire and flicked his cigarette in the hot embers.
    â€œYou kin cook up some biscuits — least you got
one
redeeming quality.”  
    â€œGonna keep me ‘round now.”
    â€œGonna keep you around.”
    Casey cut his horse loose into the remuda. He took the reins and headstall, and lugging his saddle by the horn, dropped it all inside the cabin door. He came back out and blinked in the