It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own (Code of the West) (22 page)

“Straightened out? Oh yeah, that’s true. We got ever’thing on the level now, as you probably figured out.”

“Listen, while we’re gettin’ your team hitched, why don’t you tell me what it is you got straightened out? Sometimes I’m kind of slow. Maybe I missed a point or two.”

Tap tore off a piece of brown paper sack and scri
bbled a note with a very short stubby pencil. “Just in case Bob McCurley comes up here lookin’ for his buckboard. I ought to let him know when I’m comin’ back.” He stuck the note in the middle of the butcher block.

By the time both rigs rolled out toward the summit of the Medicine Bows, Tap had explained to Stack about his real ide
ntity. All the way through the conversation, Stack shook his head and muttered, “I don’t believe this. I just can’t believe it.”

They discovered an abandoned trail over the Medicine Bows that was rough going up, but still fairly smooth on the eastern slope. The country on the other side of the pass was treeless, windy, and barren as they approached what was left of the town of Halt.

It was late in the day. Freight wagons and buckboards lined the only street. Many were loading up everything from mining gear to windows and doors.

“At the rate they’re tearing this place down,” Tap said no
dding, “there’ll be nothin’ left but a pile of splinters by morning.”

“We was lucky to get here before they sold off the Green Slipper.” Stack motioned toward the dance hall.

After several minutes of inspecting the merchandise, Tap met Stack at what was left of the bar—where a free supper was being dished out.

“Mr. Tap Andrews,” Stack repeated. “Now I’ve got to get used to thinkin’ of you as an Andrews. This is gettin’ co
nfusin’. You ain’t goin’ to tell me next you have a different name yet, are you?”

“Actually, Stack, my name is really Stuart Brannon."

“I thought Brannon got shot down there in Tombstone.”

“Nah, the Earps are in Tombstone. Brannon’s up near Prescott. Andrews is my birth name, and I don’t plan on any more stretchers. Did you find Miss April some good poss
ibles?”

“Mainly mirrors and chairs. A dance hall always gets mi
rrors and chairs busted up. How ’bout yourself? What are you goin’ to carry back to the ranch?”

“There’s a couple of mattresses and springs sets that look good. If I can buy ’em both, I will. We can store one in the attic until we build on. Then I’ll bid on a couple of those a
pple crates full of dishes. The boys pretty well busted up mine. And just for fun, I’ll see if I can snag that piano.”

“You’re serious about it?”

“Yep. Listen, Stack. Answer me one thing. Can a man take those legs off?”

“Oh yeah, the legs is bolted on, and the bars down to the pedal unscrew .
 . . but I think . . .”

“What I was figurin’ was this,” Tap continued. “I’ll san
dwich it in good between those mattresses and then tarp it and tie it. But I’m not sure how to unload it when I get home. Guess I’ll figure something out when I get there. How much you figure it’s worth?”

“I don’t think you really want worth? I su
ppose you’ll have to spend a hundred dollars to get it.”

“That’s what I was figurin’. Normally I don’t have that kind of silver, but with the reward money, it’s been a good week.”

“Andrews,” Stack tried to caution, “what if Miss Pepper don’t really . . . what if she don’t like it? Or wanted a different style? Or maybe she just wants to up and retire from playing the piano. Then you’d be stuck with something mighty expensive fillin’ up your front room.”

“I know this seems a bit reckless, but I can just see Pe
pper sittin’ at that piano in the evenin’ playin’ and singin’ hymns—”

“Hymns? Church songs?” Lowery choked. “Miss Pepper singin’? Who am I to say? I guess you know what you’re doin’.”

“Does it seem to you that we keep talkin’ about a different lady?”

“You are talkin’ about the blonde in the buggy with the Re
verend the other day, ain’t ya?”

“Certainly. Miss Suzanne Cedar. Now who are you talkin’ about?”

Stack rubbed his two-day beard and pushed back his black hat. “I think they’re about to start the auction. We best canter over there and get a good position. Maybe we can discuss this on down the road.”

Tap’s stomach knotted with anxiety.

He figured it was the lumpy mashed potatoes.

10

F
or two days Pepper paced her room, stared out the window to the north, and waited for Tap to return. For two days she kept her hair carefully tucked in her combs, her boots laced up straight, and her dress unwrinkled—expecting to hear his voice at any moment.

For two days she memorized every tree, rock, sagebrush, and rabbit that scattered about the northern horizon.

For two days she took her meals in her room by the window. She didn’t say ten words to anyone, nor did she venture more than fifty feet away from the hotel.

On the third day she stopped waiting.

Instead, she asked Bob McCurley to hitch the horse to the buggy, and she set out for the ranch without invitation or warning. Alone, the trip seemed unbearably long. Every mile was a repetition of brown grass, dust, and sage. The wide road grew narrow, and then it was just wagon ruts—some of which were slick with water held all year long. She closed her eyes for a few minutes, and when she opened them . . . the scenery never changed.

All she had to do was try to stay awake in the mild, sunny day and do lots of thinking.

About her and Tap.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Lord, this is me. You know,Pepper? I just can’t take another day of this. I’ve got to tell him. I’ve got to tell him everything. It’s beatin' me down. It’s like a dark, heavy, horrible weight on my mind day and night. I’m not sleepin’ much, and my stomach aches all day long. I’ve got to clear this up. Livin’ this lie pains me now. I just feel like screamin’. Whatever happens will be better than this. Please, Lord, I’m going crazy thinkin’ about it all the time. It won’t let me go. Help me!

It was midafternoon when she turned north at the mouth of the canyon. When she crested the final ridge to the ranch, she was disappointed not to see any smoke from the chi
mney. As she approached the buildings, she searched for movement, but could see no more than Brownie and a couple of other horses in the corral and some multicolored cattle back up the draw. Stopping the carriage by the hitching post, she slipped to the ground and looped the reins to the brass ring.

Her legs felt stiff and sore as she tried to brush a little of the road dust off her newly acquired yellow dress.

“Tap, I will not come into the house nor unpack the carriage until I tell you,” she muttered to herself as she approached the front door.

She banged on the door and glanced over to the barn. F
inally, she pushed the door open a few inches.

“Tap? It’s Pepper. Are you in here?”

He’s probably out on the ranch somewhere. Now I’ll have to wait to tell him. If I have to wait much longer, I don't know what I’ll do.

The gray and white cat jumped off the front porch roof.

“Cat? You. Oh, what’s your name anyway? You scared me to death.”

The cat scooted past her and through the open door into the house. Following the cat, she entered the house, leaving the front door wide open.

“Cat, this room seems even bigger than I remembered . . . and empty.” She peeked into the bedroom and then entered the kitchen.

Searching through the cupboards, she sighed, “Oh, Tap, they did bust up a lot of the dishes.” She had turned to walk back to the front room when she noticed a scrap of paper on the butcher block in the center of the room.

Gone to Halt. Be back Thursday night late.

Tap

Gone to Halt? Where’s Halt? Isn’t that in Wyomin’? Didn’t one of the girls work there once? Lord, I thought he wasn’t goin’ to see the girls anymore. Why would he . . .

“Today’s Thursday.” The cat jumped up on the butcher block and rubbed its back on her arm. “He’ll be home t
onight, cat, and we’ll . . . we’ll have supper waiting for him. I can cook, you know. Maybe not as good as Danni Mae, but a whole lot better than Paula or Selena.”

Pepper went out to get her valise. She also brought in the two blankets and the shotgun that Bob McCurley insisted she carry. Then she led the horse to the barn, parked the buggy, pulled the tack off, and turned the driving horse into the corral with Brownie.

She built a fire in the fireplace to take the chill out of the room. Then she shuffled around the kitchen searching for food to prepare.

She fashioned an apron out of a clean flour sack. Soon coffee was boiling, and sourdough biscuits warmed on top of the cookstove. A thick stew bubbled, and a cobbler made from dried apples filled the kitchen with a sweet aroma.

She stepped out the back door to dump some dirty water when she thought she heard a horse whinny in the front yard. Scurrying back into the house, she tossed down the pan, brushed her hair back with her fingers, and hurried toward the door. “Tap, you wait there. I need to talk to you. You don’t get to take another step until—” She pulled open the door.

A man’s strong hand grabbed her arm, dragging and jer
king her outside. The barrel of a revolver jammed against the flesh behind her right ear.

“Beckett!”

“Now ain’t this a surprise. Where is he? Where’s that gunman that ambushed me? He’s not in there, is he? ’Cause you was lookin’ for him, weren’t ya?”

“Turn loose. You’re hurting me.”

“Oh, no, you blonde Jezebel, that ain’t hurtin’ ya.” Then Beckett brought the back of his left hand slamming into her cheek and glancing into her shoulder. Pepper staggered back and fell to the porch. She grabbed her jaw and felt a trickle of blood on her cheek.

She didn’t even consider crying.

“Now that’s hurtin’ ya.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her back into the house near the fireplace. Then threw her on the floor. “When’s the gunman coming back?”

“If he finds you here, he’ll kill you. You’re dead. You know that, don’t you?”

“Shut up!”

She smelled liquor.

“Somebody’s going to die, all right, but not me. He’s going to pay. He's the one who bushwhacked us.”

“Get out of here right now. I want you out of our house.”

“
Our
house? So you moved in with some back-shootin’ gunslinger-loverboy?”

“I haven’t moved in yet—not until we get married.”

“Married? You? The yellow-haired dance-hall darlin’? Who in his right mind would marry you? You think he wants you for a wife? He’s probably hopin’ that you’ll be gone before he comes back.”

“That’s not true.”

“It don’t matter, ’cause when he walks through that door, he’s dead.”

“Don’t count on it, Beckett.”

“Oh yeah. I’m countin’ on you watchin’ him die. After that, you and me, darlin’, are ridin’ off to Wyomin’. I’ll teach you how you’re supposed to treat a man.”

“He whipped five of you. There’s no way you’ll get the drop on him.”

“There were two of them and they ambushed us. Not this time. He won’t know I’m here, and I’ll have a gun at your pretty little brainless head.”

“That won’t stop him. He’ll kill you.”

“It’ll stop him. I know the type. He’s a jerk. Now, me, I don’t really care whether I blow a hole in the side of your head or not. But that gunslinger . . . Do you know why he didn’t shoot me in the trees? ’Cause he was huggin’ on that lyin’, cheatin’, knife-swingin' breed of a dance-hall girl. He’s too easily distracted. Why, I bet he don’t give two bits which dance-hall girl he grabs.”

Pepper jumped up, grabbed the iron fire poker, and took a wild swing at Beckett.

The outlaw slammed her hand against the wall. Pepper dropped the poker as a sharp pain shot right up to her shoulder. Then he twisted her arm behind her. It hurt so bad she was afraid it was breaking. She bit her lip until she could taste blood in her mouth. But she didn't yell. Or cuss. Or cry.

With one hand still forcing her arm up behind her and the other hand yanking her hair, he towed her across the room and shoved her into one of the straight-back wooden chairs next to the dining table. She felt him reach around and fu
mble at the back of her dress.

No. Please, Lord, no!

He tore off the flour-sack apron and used it to tie her hands behind her and then tied her to the chair.

Stepping back he leered. “Oh, don’t you worry none, da
rlin’. I ain’t going to damage the bait until after the fish is caught. Now when is this . . . this . . . I don’t even know his name. When is he coming back?”

“His name happens to be Tap Andrews, and he’s a profe
ssional shootist.”

“Tap? What kind of name is that?”

“It stands for Tapadera.”

“Tapadera? Is that Mexican? Have you got yourself a Mex
ican lover?”