Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave Read Free Page B

smoke. He stood there for a long moment staring into the yellow flames.
    â€œCase. Get some coffee in you,” LG said. He picked up a tin cup and poured some in.
    Gingerly, Casey took the hot cup and blew at the steam.
    â€œHow’s the boy?”
    â€œOn that creampuff paint. Composing verse when I left him.”
    LG snickered and looked over at Emmanuel, hoping to get him riled up. The cook had a laugh that sounded like a donkey, so LG liked to get him going. But Emmanuel merely shook his head at the thought of Edwin’s riding abilities.
    â€œI hope he learns himself a lesson,” LG observed. “Hurricane deck of a bad horse ain’t for a greenhorn. Poets or none.”
    â€œThat boy put his hand in the fire, if you tells him not to,” commented Emmanuel.
    â€œShoot, he’d crawl right in and pull on a blanket,” LG said.

   
    Chapter 5
    Grand Lake
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    Bells tolled. It was Sunday and most of the townspeople were either sleeping the morning away or sitting in a pew. Main Street was empty. Blacksmith, livery, bank, assayer’s, feed & seed — no one was outside; they were all inside where it was warm.
    Griff himself had spent most of the morning in the small sheriff’s office in front of the woodstove. He finally decided it was time to feed the prisoner, so he put on his coat, pushed open the door and stepped out into the brisk air. A cold front had certainly rolled in. His nose had developed a drip, and he felt the wetness crystallize in his nostrils the moment he breathed in. Large flat-bottomed clouds were crawling slowly across the sky. It was not even noon yet. One glance at the sky and Griff knew snow would be falling in a couple hours.
    The sheriff’s office was stationed straight across the street from the courthouse — where Bill was locked up, probably shivering the morning away. All Griff did was push a wool blanket through the jail bars, once Ben and Emerson left. That big old courthouse was just too cold to sit around in.
    Griff glanced up at the sky again and squinted, tipping his hat to shade his eyes. The sun had just crept up over Mount Craig and was shining brightly in the small space between the mountaintop and the thick gray clouds.
    He started walking but paused for a moment to button his overcoat. Just walking from one place to the next gave him a sharp chill, even in the direct sunlight. But the direct sunlight was about to disappear behind those clouds and the temperature would drop once it did.  He knew he should have buttoned up his coat before he stepped outside, but sometimes he just didn’t think about it until he was already out the door.
    A green hummingbird flew close by, drawn in by his red silk scarf. It buzzed around his shoulders for a moment and then flew off.
    â€œGo hole up,” Griff told the bird kindly. The calendar might have said spring, but the sky still said winter.
    He glanced over at the courthouse. He did not feel bad for Bill. If it wasn’t for Bill and his pards, none of them would be out riding horses in the bitter cold backcountry.
    The Grand Placer Saloon was empty except for Otto the barkeeper, who was toking on a cigar. Griff wasn’t much of a saloon patron these days. Marriage had domesticated him. Griff could admit that. His wife Bonnie was a churchgoing lady and was staunchly opposed to drinking and dancing. So Griff gave it all up. But he did yearn for a good cigar every now and then, especially when he caught the sweet scent of aromatic tobacco.
    â€œMorning, Griff.”
    Otto was a heavy-set man and quite bald. He was sitting on a tall stool behind the ornate mahogany bartop playing solitaire. The Grand stayed open all day and all night: all day for the drinkers, all night for the gamblers.
    â€œI believe spring actually got here. Saw me a hummingbird right outside that door.”
    â€œNot attending service this week?”
    â€œNo, sir. Got one in the