Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave by Mark Mitten Page A

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.
    â€œThis is not a terminus town,” she told them, giving up. “No railroad, no gambling house. Why would such a man alight here?”
    â€œAvoidance,” 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.
    â€œHeard 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.
    â€œWard’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.
    â€œDoesn’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.
    â€œAnd how is the Commodore this month?” Hazel asked her, suddenly polite and proper.
    â€œWell 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.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œColorado 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.
    â€œWell, 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