My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand (Code of the West) (10 page)

A little after noon Tap was able to pull off his boot and e
xamine his throbbing leg. From above his knee to his toes was one continuous bruise. Not wanting his foot to swell so large he couldn’t wear his boot, he shoved the dirty sock-covered foot back into the stiff leather and painfully yanked the boot back in place.

Tracker turned the wagon toward the setting sun. Right b
efore dark they rolled into the Deadwood-Cheyenne stage stop at Running Water. It was no more than a huge stone barn and two unpainted wood-frame buildings surrounded by a couple dozen hurriedly pitched tents. One building served as housing, the other as a roadhouse cafe and saloon. The barn had originally served as a fortress for man and beasts against attacks from the Sioux and northern Cheyenne. Now it marked the campsite of dozens of prospectors digging for color on Silver Cliff.

“Figured it’s about time we ate somethin’ besides our own cookin’,” Tracker explained as he parked the wagon next to the stone barn. “Looks like we can camp out anywhere they aren’t diggin’ for gold.”

He and Cabe brushed the road dust off their hats and headed for the cafe. Tap stayed back to water Roundhouse.

“Ol’ boy, you had a day off. My foot’s feelin’ a little better, and the evenin’s dry and hot. Summertime in the northern range .
 . . a beast like you probably has never been south of Denver.”

Tap brushed the horse down with a folded saddle blanket.

“You’d look mighty fine in Santa Fe with some well-dressed señorita sitting sidesaddle on you, paradin’ around the plaza. Providin’ you didn’t dump her on those fancy Spanish combs.”

Roundhouse tugged at the lead rope when Tap began to smooth the saddle blanket on the horse’s back.

“Now I know what you’re thinkin’. It’s about dark. Day’s over. Surely you won’t have to do night work. Let me tell you somethin’. I’ve spent a lifetime going into dives like this one. Ever’ once in a while I have to leave in a hurry, and I don’t intend on tryin’ to ride you bareback. So I’ll just leave you in the ready position.”

Tap jerked the latigo tight and tied it around the saddle’s d-ring. The horse whipped his head around as if to bite. He gently popped his clenched left fist into the horse’s nose, and Roun
dhouse twisted his head back straight.

Retrieving a small grain sack out of the back of the buc
kboard, Tap scooped up a handful of rolled oats.

“Take it easy, boy. You’re feedin’ the mice with most of that. .
 . . You can just take a little snooze here at the rail. We’ll go make camp in an hour or so, I suppose.”

He tied the horse at the right end of the rail next to the co
rral. It wasn’t the closest position to the building, but it was the easiest one from which to mount a horse on the off side.

The inside of the cafe was crammed with people, convers
ation, and smoke.

Bummers on their way to the Black Hills.

Grubby prospectors who believed their fortune was only six feet of hard rock away.

Drovers looking for day work between the spring and fall rou
ndups.

Drummers headed for Deadwood or Cheyenne.

Gamblers with dull white shirts and sweaty starched collars.

Freighters .
 . . drifters . . . railroad surveyors.

Tracker and Cabe were in an animated conversation with a tall, thin man at a bar that looked as if it had been attacked with an axe and then repaired with rough-cut 2 x 4s.

A group of men stood around a table perched under a bright kerosene lamp.

It’s either a mighty interesting card game or the one thing this place is missing.

A well-dressed woman sat at the table trying to eat supper while a dozen men huddled like buzzards around her. She was the only woman in the room. The man beside her was tackling a chop about the size of a small hog and seemed indifferent to the interest his companion was stirring.

Dressed in a long-sleeved royal blue velvet dress, offset by black lace located in provocative places, she would have u
ndoubtedly drawn a suspicious glance in most civilized companies—which this was not.

Her jet-black hair was pulled up behind her head in ivory combs, and she exuded a stately, cultured air. She glanced up as Tap stepped closer. Their eyes met through the crowd.

“Mr. Andrews, I’m surprised to see you alive. I certainly thought that blonde-headed bobcat would have stabbed you in the back and stole all your money by now.”

“Selena, it’s good to see you haven’t lost any of your charms. Do you still carry that sneak gun in your belt?”

Several of the men began to back away from her table. Tap pushed his hat back and stepped up in the gap they left.

“Yes, and I still have that long Mexican dagger in my sleeve,” she smiled, “in case you were planning on trying something.”

The last of the crowd of men filtered back across the room.

“Come sit down and have supper with us.” She motioned. “You’ve chased off all the other men. You’ll have to tell me how Pepper’s getting along. Have you seen Stack lately? You heard about Danny Mae and Wiley, didn’t you?”

The slightly graying, stocky man with gravy on his chin and puzzlement in his eyes looked up from his plate of food to stare at Tap.

“This is my, eh .
 . . this is Mr. Colton Banner.” She turned to wave her bejeweled right hand. “And this is Mr. Tapadera Andrews. He shoots people for a living. He’s very good at it.”

5

T
he red brick Union Pacific train depot in Cheyenne felt both foreign and familiar. Five months earlier it had been the stage for a deadly shootout when Alex Del Gatto and gang attempted to rob two treasure-laden trains at the same time. Deputies Tapadera Andrews and Carbine Williams and Tap’s wife had sent most of the leaders of the gang to face their final divine judgment.

Now Pepper and Angelita sat in the very same lobby wai
ting to transfer onto the Colorado Central for a trip south to Boulder. The crowd in the terminal ignored the obviously pregnant blonde woman and her brown-skinned, dark-haired companion, much to Pepper’s relief. The aroma of fresh bread blended with the smell of cigar smoke and new leather. Under the chattering din of the crowd, the two conversed in privacy as they sat on a hard wooden bench along the red-bricked east wall.

“Do you see anyone you know?” Pepper asked Angelita.

“You mean, besides Mr. Ferguson, the ticket agent?”

“Yes. I don’t recognize any of these passengers. We h
aven’t been away from Cheyenne that long, have we?”

“Lots of people pass through here that never stick around." A
ngelita tugged at the small yellow straw hat held in place by a white lace ribbon tied under her chin. "Do I have to wear this?”

“Yes. A lady should wear a hat when she travels.”

“But I’m not a lady—yet.”

“Think of this as school. You’re training to be a lady.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Angelita swung her high-top black lace-up shoes back and forth as she sat on the tall bench. “Why do I want to be a lady?”

“Because that’s what God expects of us. Besides, true gentlemen will take an interest in you if you know how to be a lady.”

“Is Mr. Andrews a true gentleman?”

Pepper tried to brush down the front of her light blue dress before she realized that the bulge she fussed with was her stomach. “Mr. A
ndrews is trying very hard to learn how to be a gentleman. Things like being a lady and a gentleman are easier learned when you are young. That’s why I want you to keep trying.”

“When I get big, I think I’ll marry someone like Mr. A
ndrews. Only my husband has to own a gold mine.” A small boy in a tight white shirt and a tie sat on a bench staring at her. Angelita stuck out her tongue. The boy blushed crimson and looked away.

“What do you like about Mr. Andrews?” Pepper asked.

“Well, he’s strong. He knows how to take care of you. He never gets scared. He works hard. He goes to church with you. He doesn’t come home drunk. He doesn’t chew tobacco. And . . . he needs you to take care of him.”

“Those are good qualities.”

“And he’s not bad-looking, for an older man. But don’t tell him I said that. You know, the part about not being bad-looking.”

Pepper threw back her head and roared with laughter.

“Did I say something funny?”

“No, it was delightful. But I can’t promise I won’t tell Mr. A
ndrews. You’re a very insightful young lady.”

“Is that good?”

“It means you take time to think things through. I like that.”

“Do you know what I’ve been thinking through a lot in the past few minutes?”

“What?”

“I’ve been wondering if you have any blank paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen.”

Pepper glanced down at her valise. “Did you want to write a letter?”

“Not exactly. I was just thinking .
 . .”

“About the old days? You are not going to peddle phony aut
ographs.”

“Pepper Andrews.” The voice sounded musical and loud but on tune, almost haunting.

Searching toward the door of the train depot, she spied a familiar well-dressed form.

“Savannah?” Pepper struggled to her feet and waded through the crowd, Angelita at her side. Halfway across the room, she noticed a nobby-dressed man with round derby hat and large mustache stan
ding at Savannah’s side. His white shirt was starched, his tie was silk, and the badge on his chest was shiny silver and read U.S. Marshal.

“Now look at you,” Savannah purred. “You’re beginning to look like a mama.”

“I’m fat, Savannah. Just plain fat.”

“Nonsense. You look delightful—in a womanly way. Pe
pper, this is my fiancé, Marshal Tobert C. Stillwell.”

He took off his hat. Gray streaked the thick, wavy dark brown hair. He gently shook her hand.

“Toby, this is a very dear friend, Mrs. Pepper Andrews.”

“Mighty pleased to meet you, ma’am. Is your husband with you? I’d like to talk to him. I’ve heard a lot about how he cleaned the rif
fraff out of Cheyenne after Pappy was killed.”

“Tap’s up north chasin’ cows. He’s working as brand inspe
ctor now.”

“Sure like to talk him into comin’ down to the Indian N
ation and helpin’ me out,” the big man boomed.

“Eh, uh hem.”

“Excuse me,” Pepper apologized. “Savannah, you remember Baltimore’s daughter Angelita?”

“Why, yes. How’s your father, dear?”

“He continues to make slow progress with his afflictions, but with the help of the Almighty, we believe he will fully recover.”

“Those are big words from a little lady,” the marshal said.

“Angelita is a special, dear friend of ours.” Pepper slipped her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

“I can see that. If you ladies will excuse me, I’d like to bo
rrow a sheet of paper and jot a note to Mr. Andrews. I was serious about the offer. I’d like you to carry a letter for me.”

“I’ll be happy to, but Tap’s retired from the lawman bus
iness.”

“Think I’ll write to him anyway. Perhaps he could reco
mmend some men with sand.”

Pepper followed Savannah across the depot.
She always manages to look like a queen entering her court no matter where she goes.

Sitting on a hard, polished bench, Savannah spread her flo
wing violet dress and beckoned Pepper and Angelita to join her.

“I know, I know what you’re going to say. Why on earth would I want to marry another lawman?”

“It did cross my mind.” Pepper folded her hands on her lap and tried not to think about how plain and fruitful she must look next to Savannah.

“It’s my calling. It’s what I do best. The Lord knows I didn’t go looking for another lawman. In fact, when I came back west after visiting family in Charleston, I was determined not to marry again. But there I was at a hotel in Ft. Smith, and Toby was sitting alone eating supper.

"The waitress revealed he’d been eating alone for years, ever since his wife was killed by bandits out in the Indian Nation. I thought to myself,
Poor man—he’d probably like someone to talk to.
Then,” Savannah raised her eyebrows, “one thing led to another.”

“I bet it did.”

“We’re going to wait until next spring to get married. He’s a good Christian man, you know.”

“You’ve convinced me. And you have my blessings and prayers.”

“Thank you, dear Pepper. In a world of many shallow friendships, yours is one of the most genuine I have. Now if I were you, I wouldn’t let Tap even see that letter. The Nation is no place for a lawman at the present time. Toby’s the boss. He can sit in Ft. Smith and do the paperwork. But the deputies follow some very dangerous trails.”