My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand (Code of the West) (6 page)

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The evening was warm, stuffy, and hectic, but the time passed quickly as Pepper and Angelita prepared for their trip to Colorado. Tap was still awake when Pepper finally crawled into bed. He could tell from her sigh that she was exhausted, so he didn’t bother talking. When the lantern flickered out, he lay on his back and reviewed the same thoughts that had occupied his mind for the past hour.

Ever’one in Arizona knows that Brannon’s horse is El Viento. Stuart Brannon is one man who would never, ever call his horse El Diablo—the devil. Tracker doesn’t know Brannon at all. That was just a big windy. Why did he need to lie to me? But as long as I get my pay and don’t have to do anythin’ illegal . . .

Maybe I should tell Pepper about my suspicions, but she’d fret over it.

Lord, that lady worries too much.

I hope.

3

 
M
ornings.

The only faintly cool part of a late August day in eas
tern Wyoming Territory was the first two hours of daylight. From before the sun came up until about an hour afterwards, even a windless day had a cool drift about it.

Tap had Roundhouse bucked out before Tracker and Cabe showed up at the corrals. He cleared things with Tom Slaug
hter and took a twenty-dollar advance back to Pepper and Angelita for their traveling expenses.

Alone with Pepper on the front porch, he had given her a last long, soft kiss. Then he mounted a prancing Roundhouse and ga
lloped back to the corrals.

My, how that woman can kiss.

I do believe they’re even sweeter when she’s in the family way. ’Course, I never kissed a gal in that condition before.

At least, not that I know of.

Tracker and Cabe had a buckboard packed by the time he returned, and they rolled out of Pine Bluffs just as the last vestige of morning coolness vanished. The road north varied in width and condition. It was neither a stage nor a military route. Of the 20,789 people who inhabited the entire Territory of Wyoming, extremely few lived along its eastern boundary. During the first hour on the trail, Tap counted three ranch headquarters. After that there were none.

He rode the big gray about two lengths ahead of the buc
kboard. The dust from the wagon wheels boiled up about fifteen feet into the air and seemed to hang forever. The prairie was devoid of trees, and the rolling brown grass was broken up only by an occasional clump of granite rock or a defiant prickly pear cactus.

Spring Creek still had a few potholes with standing water, and Tap made sure the horses got watered. It was past noon when they reached the chaparral near the head of Bushnell Creek. Scattered scrub cedar, piñon pines, and yucca littered the rocky hillside, brin
ging the first variance of vegetation since they left Pine Bluffs.

“Andrews, you do plan on stoppin’ to eat, don’t you?” Jacob Tracker called out.

Tap circled the big gray back to the wagon. “That clump of cedars over there is just about as much shade as you’re goin’ to find till we hit Horse Creek. You might as well noon it there. I’ve got a stash of hardtack and jerky, so I think I’ll ride up there to that butte and take a look around.”

“You aren’t going to stop and stretch?” Cabe quizzed with an a
lmost demanding tone.

Kind of pushy, aren’t you, Cabe? I trust you about as much as a wasp in my britches.

“I’ve been in the saddle most ever’ day for the past three months. After a while it kind of gets to feelin’ like sittin’ in a rockin’ chair on the front porch. Anyway, this country is mighty pretty, and someday it will make an ace of a ranch. But right now it’s about the only place in a hundred miles where you could hide some stolen cattle. So as brand inspector, I better check around a little. I’m sure you two can fork down some fixin’s and take a nap without me around.”

“I’d be interested in knowing if you run across any tanks or springs in here,” Tracker informed him. “If I drive cattle through here, I need to know where water is.”

“I can tell you one thing. You better drive ’em before August. It can get mighty dry out here.”

“When are you goin’ to be back?” Cabe demanded.

Tap glared at him for a minute. “Just relax, Cabe. Why don’t you go mark some cards or oil your hair or file your fingernails—whatever it is you do.”

Wes Cabe bristled at the words, his deep, baggy eyes fai
ling to disguise the hatred.

“And if I were you, I’d stay out of the sun. Your neck’s ge
ttin’ mighty red already,” Tap added.

Tap turned Roundhouse away from the buckboard and tro
tted up the side of the hill. He could feel the power in the horse’s hips as the big gray scampered up the incline with an eagerness that belied four hours on the trail.

The highest point in the hill country proved to be a rocky butte that jutted up about thirty feet higher than the ground around it. A lone cedar grew at its base, and Tap tied Roun
dhouse up to the tree and pulled off his saddle.

“Stay in the shade, big boy, and you’ll feel a lot better this afte
rnoon. I’ll water you up good when we get to Horse Crick.”

Tap grabbed his rifle and hiked to the top of the rocks. He sat down facing west, pulled off his hat, and set it on a rock, crown down. He untied his red bandanna, searched for a clean and fairly dry spot on it, and wiped his forehead and neck. Then he jammed his hat back on and surveyed the countr
yside.

Lots of protection from the wind and snow in the winter. A man could run a thousand head back in these little ca
nyons and draws. ’Course, he’d need to winter feed. Maybe grow some hay out on the prairie and build a barn on Bushnell Crick. But then, the winters have been mild. Not that I want a ranch in this country. Actually I’ll take a ranch in about any old country the Lord gives me, as long as I can feed Pepper and Angelita and the baby and me.

He stood up and turned slowly north, trying to fix his mind on every landmark, arroyo, and clump of trees.

A couple dozen here. A couple dozen there. A gang could cache a fairly sizable herd, provided they were willing to round them all up later on. Only problem is, what would they do with them? Drive ’em to the Black Hills, I suppose. Sell them to the prospectors and miners. But they’d have to cross the North Platte.

If a man has to do all that work, he might as well get a l
egal job. Never could figure out rustlin’. The pay’s lousy, work’s tough, hours long, and the chances of growin’ old mighty slim. Kind of like hittin’ yourself in the head with a hammer.

He turned east and spied a low cloud of dust near the N
ebraska line. He studied the horizon for several minutes.

“Either someone’s pushin’ a head of cattle or .
 . .”

Tap rubbed the sweat off his mustache, pushed his hat back, and watched the dust cloud creep westward.

They stopped? Cattle don’t stop all at once like that. It’s got to be . . .

A tinier dust cloud branched southwest. Tap traced the line fo
rward into the chaparral.

Tracker and Cabe’s fire. They’re sending scouts to check it out. Sioux? Cheyenne? Arapaho? Crow? Maybe Sioux out of Dakota.

Tap trotted down the butte toting his rifle over his shoulder. “I should have left you saddled, you hardheaded, oversized pony. Stand still and let me get to work.”

He had to neck Roundhouse to the tree in order to get the gelding to quit shying away from the saddle. When Tap jerked the cinch tight, Roundhouse kicked at him and caught Tap right above the knee on his left leg.

Tap clutched his leg and staggered around the hillside.

Tears of pain plowed through the dirt on his cheeks.

“You pinheaded, over-muscled . . . sorry excuse for a horse,” Tap shouted. “I should never have given up cussin’. You just about broke my leg.”

Tap reeled back to the tethered horse and loosened the lead rope from the tree. Clutching the latigo for support, he gr
imaced with pain as he led the irresolute horse down into a clearing. He stared at the saddle horn that seemed higher than he remembered.

“Why did you kick my left knee? I can’t put any weight on it, so how on earth am I going to mount you on the run? ’Course, I could climb up on the right.” Tap winced as a sharp pain shot through his left knee and into his leg.

He reached around the horse’s neck to bring the reins to the right side.

“Okay, if I take much longer, Tracker and Cabe will do som
ething dumb and end up gettin’ that canyon named in their memory. I’m mounting from the off side, and you’re goin’ to stand. Understand?”

Roundhouse’s ears stood straight. He peered back sho
wing white in his eyes.

“Why is it I think I’m goin’ to regret this?”

Pain tore through his right leg as Tap lifted it and shifted his weight to his injured left. His right hand gripped both the reins and the saddle horn as Tap shoved his right boot into the tapadera-covered stirrup. He took a deep breath.

“All right, knucklehead, let’s see what happens now.”

To his utter surprise, Roundhouse stood still as he mounted. Even when Tap eased his left foot into the stirrup, the horse didn’t move a hoof.

“Well, I’ll be. You’re an Indian pony, Roundhouse. This isn’t the first time you’ve been mounted from that side, is it? Come on, cayuse, let’s go earn our pay, if it’s not too late.”

Tap could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat in the painful throbs of his left knee, but he had little time to think about it. He spurred the horse down the coulee, through the trees, and up the other side. His Winchester in his lap, he circled the column of smoke and approached Tracker and Cabe from the south side.

Two young Indian men in buckskin britches and white co
tton shirts with purple sashes for belts stood in defiance back to back as Tracker and Cabe circled them with guns drawn. The braves had their thick black hair cut at the shoulders, with bangs hanging almost to their defiant dark eyes.

“It’s about time you showed up,” Cabe growled. “These two tried to raid our camp.”

Tap rode straight up to the four men but remained mounted. “They try to steal something?”

“No.” Tracker kept his eyes focused on the two Indians. “But Cabe stopped them before they got a chance to try an
ything.”

“I thought you were gettin’ paid for doin’ this,” Cabe co
mplained.

“What I’m gettin’ paid for is to save your lives, and that’s what I’m about to do.”

“What do you mean, save our lives? They’re the ones about to die,” Cabe boasted.

“What do you suggest?” Tracker glanced up at Tap for a split se
cond.

“I want you two to holster your guns, apologize for your rud
eness, give them something to eat, and tell them they can have this campsite because we’re leavin’.”

“Like the devil, I will,” Cabe protested. “They ain’t gettin’ nothin’ from me but a hunk of lead.” He raised his revolver straight up at one Indian’s head. The young man promptly spat in Cabe’s face. But before Cabe could respond, the barrel of Tap’s ’73 rifle slammed up against the ga
mbler’s head.

“Drop it, Cabe,” Tap shouted.

“I ain’t about to.”

“I said drop it right now, or so help me, I’ll blow your head off.”

“I should have known a breed like you would stick up for Injuns.” Cabe lowered his arm to his side, but he kept the gun in hand.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” Tracker asked.

Both Indians stared at Tap.

“I’ll tell you in a minute. Right now, follow my lead. Cabe, I’m talkin’ to you. Don’t do somethin' dumb. These boys unde
rstand every word we speak. Don’t you, boys?”

The Indians glanced at each other, but didn’t reply.

“My friends and I are sorry for the rude reception," Tap continued. "Some less honorable men have been stealing cattle in this area. You were mistaken for them.”

“What?” Cabe groused.

Tap swept his arm toward the fire. “We would like to give you a present of this food and this fire. We are leavin’ this land and goin’ north. May you and your people have a pleasant stay in these hills.”

“Their people? There’s more of them?” Tracker gasped.

“Leave the food but pack up the dishes. Cabe, go hitch the team quickly.”

“I ain’t goin’ to start takin’ orders from you,” he sneered.

“Well, I am,” Tracker said. “This is exactly the reason I wanted Andrews along.”

“Do you understand?” Tap addressed the Indians.

“Yes, we understand,” the taller of the two responded. Then the other spoke in Sioux. “He said, ‘The one at the wagon will never live to be an old man.’”

“That’s probably true, boys, but he won’t die today.”

“No, not today. We will go tell the people.”

“Take the food with you,” Tap insisted. “Give them that pot, Tracker.”