Sipping Whiskey in a Shallow Grave by Mark Mitten Page B

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.
    â€œOh, 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.
    â€œThe tea is splendid this evening,” Hazel said. “Codfish on the menu.”
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Chapter 11
    Beaver Creek
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    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.
    â€œNeed 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.
    â€œNeed 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.
    â€œWhat is this damn thing anyways?”
    â€œFish 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.
    â€œFeels waxy or something.”
    â€œThey wear these on the high seas, them sailors,” LG told him.
    â€œKeeps the rain out purty good,” Casey said. “Snow, too.”
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œNot 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.”
    â€œCould have been
branding
in this shit,” Edwin observed, sagely.  
    â€œYep.”
    â€œGotta 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.
    â€œCome 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.
    â€œHey 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