My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand (Code of the West) (7 page)

“But it’s the only large one we have.”

“If you’re dead, you won’t need a pot at all.”

“You’re right about that.”

“Toss the biscuits on top and hand them the sack of dried a
pples.”

The Indians accepted the food, then mounted their p
onies, and galloped east.

Cabe circled up to the fire with the wagon. “You owe us a lot of explaining, Andrews. I could’ve shot them two Indians dead, and you know it. Ain’t nobody goin’ to back me off and then walk away clean. It’s goin’ to cost ya.”

“How many are out there?” Tracker asked.

“At least three hundred. That’s men, women, and kids. Looks like they’re headed for these trees for a summer camp.”

“But this is many miles from the reservation. They can’t come here,” Cabe protested. “They have to stay on that reservation or be shot.”

“We aren’t the ones to shoot them. We’ll let the Indian agents and the boys in blue handle Indian matters.”

“What took you so long gettin’ back? We could’ve had all three hundred of ’em on us before you returned,” Cabe complained. “Maybe you was hopin’ they’d ambush us.”

Tap ignored Cabe and looked right at Jacob Tracker. “My horse kicked my left leg so hard it liked to cripple me. I won’t wander off so far next time.”

“Why didn’t you tell us all that when you first rode up?” Tracker questioned.

“Because it’s better to treat Indians right because you want to, r
ather than because you’re scared to death of ’em. This way we were generous. They owe us something, and they won’t forget. If they think you gave it up just to save your hide . . . This way, it’s their tribute, and they don’t owe you anything.”

“If you’d let me shoot those two, we wouldn’t have lost an
ything. We can surely outrun a whole village of savages.”

“For how long? And if you're serious about a ranch up here, you’d better start makin’ all the friends you can, no matter what color they are.”

“Andrews is right, Wes. We don't need trouble on the first day out.”

“Or any day,” Tap added.

“That’s for sure.”

Tap studied Tracker’s narrow eyes.
And what exactly are you lookin' for?

They made camp between three cottonwoods that marked the big bend in Horse Creek. Tap volunteered to tend the fire if the other two took the cooking chores, limited now to what could be done with a coffeepot and frying pan.

Tap had gingerly slid down out of the saddle, trying to keep all his weight on his right leg. He succeeded in pulling the tack off Roundhouse and getting the horse picketed for the night. While scrounging up some firewood, he heard a noise behind him and whirled around on his left foot.

The excruciating pain shooting up his leg caused him to co
llapse on the ground and clutch his knee. He lay on his back and looked up at the clear Wyoming sky. He could feel a tear slip out of the corner of his left eye.

Lord, I surely didn’t need this. Not kicked by a horse. I’ve been stabbed, shot, and snake-bit, but it didn’t hurt this bad.

Tap struggled to his feet.

If You’ve got a purpose for this, Lord, I reckon it would ease the pain just a little to know what it is. Yes, sir, I think that might help a tad.

They decided to set a night watch just in case a few Sioux wandered north to check out their location. Tap volunteered for the first shift and had no objections from the other two.

It had been dark for a couple of hours before Tracker and Cabe decided to turn in. Wes Cabe chose the back of the buc
kboard. Tracker tossed out his roll underneath. Tap spread his bedroll across the clearing about twenty-five feet away from the other two.

“You ain’t bein’ too sociable,” Cabe complained.

“It’s to your advantage.”

“How’s that?” Tracker asked.

“We don’t have enough wood, and anyway it’s too blame hot to keep a fire goin’. And from time to time I have nightmares, dreamin’ about old gunfights and such. Since I always sleep with my Colt in my hand, I have a tendency to sit up and start shootin’ at anything that moves. It’s a nasty habit.”

“Good grief, I should say so,” Tracker exclaimed.

“Don’t worry. I can go six months without that ever happenin' at all.”

“How long’s it been since you had one of those attacks?” Cabe asked.

“I haven’t been bothered with it since right after the first of the year. That’s why I like the first shift at night guard. Then you don’t have to come wake me up in the night. I just want to tell you right now, it ain’t nothin’ personal.”

“You can sleep as far away as you want,” Tracker i
nsisted.

“Thank ya. I’ll wake Cabe up about midnight.”

“You got a pocket watch?”

“Nope. Don’t need one.”

“How will you know when it’s midnight?”

“Trust me. Now I’m goin’ to kick out the fire. I’ll be leanin’ against that big cottonwood stump. If you plan on wanderin’ around over that way, be sure and ‘hello’ me first.”

Tap sprawled on his bedroll, his back against the stump and the rifle across his lap. He found that if he propped his left leg up on his saddle, once the initial jolt of pain shot through his body, the leg actually felt better. Although it was a moonless night, the blanket of stars provided enough light to see the outline of the wagon straight ahead of him and silhouettes of the three horses as they grazed and slept standing.

This is goin’ to be a long two weeks if Cabe keeps totin’ that chip. ’Course, I don’t mind comin’ out with another $120. But I’m goin’ to need a lot more. Government land bein’ $1.25 an acre, a 5,000 acre place would be, eh, over $6,000 .
 . . $6,250. The bank wants 30 percent down, which would make . . . I can’t even write in the dirt and read it at night. Let’s see, one, eight, seventy-five . . . $1,875.

If I can get anyone to take a chance on me.

’Course, I’d need some start-up money at $21 a head. Maybe a hundred cows and a couple bulls, maybe $2,000, if I’m lucky. Barn, corrals, windmill, and a house.

Any way you cut it, Andrews, you need $5,000 to have a d
ecent place. So far, countin’ the double eagles and the $120, we have saved about $320. At this rate, providin’ expenses don’t go up too much, it will take almost eight years.

Is that right? The baby will be half-grown. I must’ve made a mistake.

Most of the next three hours he refined and refigured the numbers. Tap didn’t get any closer to owning a ranch, but it did keep him awake through an otherwise uneventful shift.

Cabe decided to keep guard by sitting up in the wagon. Tap knew where that would lead, but didn’t protest. Back by his stump, he lay on his bedroll, his Colt in his right hand, his Wi
nchester by his left side. He hung his hat on the saddle horn, his boots still on, his left knee throbbing.

Tap’s left leg had so stiffened by morning that he had to drag it around as he started up a campfire. The warmth from the flames limbered it a little after he rubbed on some lin
iment that Pepper had insisted he bring to treat the lingering effects of his ant bites. The coffee was boiling by the time Tracker crawled out from under the wagon.

The slightly bowlegged and graying Jacob Tracker stretched his arms, combed his hair with his fingers, and jammed his worn black hat tight on his head as he a
pproached the fire.

“Wes never roused me. You didn’t take my shift, did ya?”

“Nope. Cabe decided to take his shift asleep, but ever’thing turned out fine. It takes discipline for a tired man to sit up at night and stare into the dark.”

“Discipline or fear. Back in the old days in Texas, I sat up with my daddy three nights in a row staring at the night and listening to taunts from the Comanches. You can keep your eyelids open a lot longer if you plan on gettin’ scalped the m
oment you shut ’em. You figure we’ll make it to the North Platte tonight?”

“Yep. It shouldn’t be too hard to cross in late August.”

“How close will that put us to Ft. Laramie?”

“I’d judge it at about twenty miles. You two got business at the Fort?”

“Nope. After we cross the North Platte, how far will it be?” Tracker quizzed.

“From what I hear, one day north ought to take us to Hat Crick Breaks, and then we’ll start down the Old Woman Crick drainage about the time we draw up even with the D
akota line.”

“I don’t want us to wander over into Nebraska. I’m strictly inte
rested in Wyomin’ land.”

“You’ll know when you’re in Nebraska. Nothin’ in that part of the state but the Sand Hills. About noon I’ll need to pull off and ride up Lone Tree Creek just in case some cattle grazed this far north.”

“We’ll be a long ways from Pine Bluffs.”

“Bovines have a tendency to really wander off when som
eone re-brands them and pushes them up the trail.”

“You goin’ to need some help?”

“Nah, I’m lookin’ for cattle, not a fight. This far from home, I don’t aim to start anything. I’ll just scout it out and give the stock association a report. They can figure out what they want to do.”

Wes Cabe finally dragged himself out of the buckboard, mumbled a few words to Tracker, and ignored Tap co
mpletely. He spent most of the next half hour staring at a blue tin coffee cup he held in his hands. The sun was already visible on the eastern prairie when they finally got the wagon loaded. Tap mounted Roundhouse on the off side and once again found the horse perfectly calm while he painfully climbed into the saddle.

But the minute his backside hit the leather, the big gray started to buck. Two wild jumps toward the buckboard, and the team of horses broke into an instant gallop, leaving Tracker straining for control and Cabe tumbling to the back of the wagon.

If he hadn’t been fighting to keep from getting dumped himself, Tap could have enjoyed a good laugh. As it was, he was glad that after half a dozen jumps, Roundhouse slipped into a lope and allowed him a slight degree of control.

The sun blazed straight overhead when they stopped at the mouth of Lone Tree Creek. Tap gave Roundhouse a rest and refilled his canteen before he mounted, left the others, and rode southwest up the almost dry creekbed. Even though it was as hot as on previous days, a slight breeze blew right into Tap’s face. The wind seemed to invigorate the gray horse. He high-stepped and pranced most of the way.

“You feelin’ that good, boy? I’d like to race you one of these days at the Fourth of July picnic. There’s no way they could beat you at a distance . . . but then I don’t know if I could hold on for the distance.”

Lone Tree Creek seemed to Tap to be a misnomer. He couldn’t find a tree anywhere. Where the creek emptied into Horse Creek, it was just a wide swell in the rolling prairie. In August it was no more than three feet wide and about six inches deep. As he rode upstream, Tap figured that som
ewhere out on the prairie there must be a spring or two that kept the water running.

Most of the countryside was rolling prairie with draws and swells not more than twelve feet deep. Each one could have held several hidden riders, but none was large enough for a corral or a hideout.

Dutton and Texas Jay were to meet someone at the corrals on Lone Tree Creek. But this might be the wrong creek. Horse Creek? Bear Creek? Lone Tree Creek. This should be it.

Tap watched the mud to investigate the cattle and horse tracks.

Spring roundup’s finished. Fall roundup’s still months away. There’s too much activity out here, and they don’t look like Indian ponies.

The rolling prairie began a precipitous rise away from the creek. Tap soon found himself riding into what was a
lmost a canyon. The walls of rolling brown-grass-covered prairie  would be hidden unless a person rode straight into it.

“Roundy, ol’ boy, if this draw gets a little more vertical, it would make a natural corral. Just post a couple men dow
nstream here, and you could hold a pen full of cows for weeks without anyone knowin’ it.”

On the southern horizon, Tap spotted two riders cresting the prairie. They rode down into the coulee about half a mile ahead of him. He cocked his lever-action rifle and laid it back down on his lap and shut Roundhouse down to a slow walk. The riders kept their horses ten to fifteen feet apart. They turned toward Tap and waited for his arrival.

The clean-shaven one on the left wore a dark wide-brimmed felt hat with a Montana crease, a long-sleeved white cotton pullover shirt, and a black leather vest. He sat straight up in his California saddle. The reins draped through the fingers of his left hand, which rested on the slim silver saddle horn. His right hand leaned against the horse’s rump only a few inches from a holstered Colt .44.

The cowboy on the right had a mustache that seemed to droop clear to the bottom of his chin. He was older and heavier. He wore a floppy gray hat that looked permanently raised up in the front. His brown and white paint horse was small for the north country. A tu
rquoise and silver hackamore encircled the horse’s nose. In the rider’s lap lay a ’66 Winchester rifle, its copper and tin gunmetal receiver reflecting the bright sun. Tap couldn’t see if this man carried a revolver or not.

As he got closer, Tap watched the younger man glance over at the older one.

Okay, Mr. Bent Hat, you’re callin’ this one. Make your move.

Tap was about fifty feet away when the older one shouted, “That’s far enough, pilgrim. This is private property. I’m afraid you’ll have to turn around.”

Tap stopped Roundhouse and kept his eye fixed on the older man. “I was lookin’ for a corral.”

“Ain’t no corral here, so just turn around and keep on ri
ding.”

“No corral? I was told there was a corral on Lone Tree Crick.”

“You was told wrong.”

“That could be. But Snake Dutton and Texas Jay said a co
whand might find some work up here. Go meet the boss at the corrals. I don’t know my way around in this country, boys. You seen Snake and Texas Jay? Point me in the right direction, and I’ll surely hightail it out of here.”

The men glanced at each other. The older one pushed his hat back but never took his hand off the trigger of the ca
rbine.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Andrews.”

“Ain’t I seen you somewhere before?”

“You been in Arizona?”

“Nope.”

“Me and Snake were down there in prison in Yuma a year or so ago.”

“You been in Colorado?”

Tap watched the man’s face. “Yep.”

“Rico Springs. That’s it.” The man spit tobacco, his eyes slit in suspicion.

If that carbine moves three inches to the left, I’m pullin’ this trigger, mister.

“I remember you. I won two dollars off you when Big Karl ta
ngled with that Texas gunslinger last fall. Remember, they fought it out in the street. Both of ’em nearly died.”

“The whole thing’s a vague memory. But you’re right. I was there.”

“Shoot, why didn’t you say you were one of the Rico Springs boys?”

“I only stayed that one night.”

“No foolin’? I holed up there for two winters. But no more. Did you know that April’s Dance Hall burned to the ground?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Colorado’s gettin’ too civil. Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Arizona—them’s about the only places left for a man to stretch.”

“We lettin’ him ride in or not?” the younger man asked his trail partner. “Banner wants nine men, and we got eight. But he’s the only one who does the hirin’. We’re just loafin’ around until Monday when he comes in. You can stay with us if you want, but we ain’t promisin’ you no job.”

“And if Colton don’t like ya, he’ll probably shoot ya,” the other man added.

“Don’t sound like too good an outfit to work for,” Tap co
mmented.

“We work for two dollars a day plus a percentage of the cattle sales. That ain’t bad.”

These guys are probably pullin’ in more than a brand inspector makes. No wonder this Banner gets ’em to sign up.

“I guess I’ll just have to ride on then. Give my regards to Snake and Texas Jay.”

“They ain’t here right at the moment. They lost their poke in a monte game last night and went to the bank for a withdrawal.”

“There’s no town for a hundred miles except Ft. Laramie.”

“That might be, but I speculate they’ll come home with some jingle.”

“Adios, boys.”

“See you, Andrews.”

As Tap turned to ride away from the two gunmen, he heard the younger one say, “Hey .
 . . wasn’t that deputy in Cheyenne City called Andrews? You know, the one that killed that big bartender that worked for Del Gatto?”

Tap kept riding but slipped his hand down onto the handle of his revolver.

“That was Anderson. What was his first name? It was a Mexican name . . . Reata . . . Reata Anderson.”

Reata Anderson? Lord, I do believe You confused their minds. ’Course, with these two it probably didn’t challenge You much.

If Dutton and Texas Jay are on the prowl for someone to rob, they just might come across Tracker and Cabe. This is gettin’ mighty complex.

Tap had instructed Jacob Tracker to follow Horse Creek all the way to the North Platte. It was shorter to keep going straight when the creek turned east, but Tap figured it would be an easier journey along the creek and would give him time to catch up with them.

When he came to the bend in the creek, he spotted fresh wagon tracks climbing the embankment and heading north.

“I’ll bet you two bits, Roundhouse, that it was Cabe’s idea to go north. He surely resents me coming along. But they’re out in the open, and it can’t be more than ten miles to the river. They won’t get lost.”

About two miles from Horse Creek, Tap noticed hoofprints indicating that two riders from the west had begun to follow the buckboard.

Sometimes I hate being right. Play it smart, boys. Wait u
ntil dark—or at least until I ride up.

Tap followed both sets of prints for another mile. Then he n
oticed that the horses had swung off to the left, entering a fairly deep but narrow coulee.

Swinging around for an ambush, no doubt. Boys, you are as predictable as a pretty girl in springtime.

Tap nudged Roundhouse from a lope to a trot as he traced the wagon wheel prints in the dry prairie soil. Although he could see the trees alongside the North Platte a few miles ahead on the distant horizon, the buckboard had dropped out of sight among the swells and draws in the rolling prairie.

Two gunshots rang out in the stillness of the afternoon. Tap spurred Roundhouse to a gallop. Boiling over the crest of a knoll, Tap came upon Cabe and Tracker hiding behind their buckboard and firing at two large boulders about one hundred feet away. The two granite rocks were the only ones for miles and looked as if they had been dropped straight out of heaven.

Tap rode to the top of the knoll above and behind the wagon where he could overlook the entire scene. He aimed his rifle at the boulders and fired a shot close to a jagged edge of the granite to shower the pair with rock chips.

Cabe and Tracker spun around, but he didn’t take his eyes off the boulders.

“Snake,” he hollered. “Is that you and Texas Jay back there?”

“Who’s out there?” a voice yelled back.

“Tap Andrews. Those are my friends down there, and I’ll have to shoot ya if you keep this up.”

“I thought you and me was friends.”

“I won’t let them shoot you either.”

“We didn’t know they was your friends.”

“You know now. You two just mount up and ride on down the trail. No reason for anyone to carry lead today.”

“What if we don’t want to go?” It was a higher-pitched voice than Tap figured belonged to Texas Jay.

“Then you’ll force me to shoot you both.”

“You ain’t that good.”

“Of course I am. Just ask Snake. Now I’m sorry that you lost your pokes in a monte game, but I can’t allow you to rob my friends.”

“How’d you know that?” Dutton called.

“I went visitin’ with the boys at the corral on Lone Tree Crick.”

“You sign up with Banner?”

“Not yet, but the pay sounds good. I’m workin’ for Tracker down here at the buckboard right now. Make up your mind, boys. Day’s gettin’ late. You want to ride off, or want me to write to your mamas?”

There was a long pause. No guns were fired.

“We’re goin’ to leave, Andrews.”

“Good choice, Snake.”

“Don’t let them take a shot at us.”

“They won’t.”

“I ain’t through with you, Andrews,” Texas Jay shouted from behind the rock.

“Get him out of here, Snake.”

“We’re goin’.”

The two gunmen scampered from behind the rocks to their wai
ting horses. Tap eased Roundhouse down off the knoll toward Tracker and Cabe. His stirrups were swung up by the horse’s neck to keep him from sliding forward as they descended. He still carried the rifle across his lap. His left leg throbbed as his weight shifted from the seat of the saddle to the stirrups.

Both men still had their revolvers pointing toward the bou
lders.

“’Bout time you showed up,” Cabe complained. “How come you always wander off right before trouble starts? A man might think you had it planned that way.”

“Why is it you two didn’t follow Horse Crick like I instructed?” Tap questioned.

“’Cause this way is miles shorter,” Cabe informed him.

Tap scanned the horizon while he talked. “Looks to me like you wasted time goin’ this way. You don’t make many miles standin’ around shootin’ at rocks.”

“Andrews is right about that,” Tracker responded, holste
ring his gun and stepping up to inspect the rigging on the team of horses.

“We were holdin’ our own,” Cabe insisted.

“That’s because Dutton and Texas Jay are buffoons.”

“Are you sayin’ we can’t face down real gunmen like you?”

“What I’m sayin’ is that if they had half a brain between them, they would have laid up there on that knoll and picked you off before you knew they were there.”

“Can’t argue that, Wes. Come on, let’s get on up to the North Platte. I’ve had enough excitement for one day,” Tracker pressed.

Both men loaded back into the buckboard.

“You boys lead the way. I’ll drop back here to make sure those two aren’t followin’ behind,” Tap called out.

“I’d rather you were up ahead where I can keep an eye on you,” Cabe hollered.

“Guess you’ll just have to turn around.” Tap tipped his hat.

Two days is about it, Cabe. How in the world will I last two weeks with you?

Wes Cabe kept sporadically looking back as the wagon rolled along. Tap’s attention focused on the shifting shadows cast by the western slope of the prairie. Rather than look back, he glanced to his left side. He cocked the hammer back on the rifle and pulled the long-range sight down out of the way.

“Take it easy, boy,” he whispered to the big gray horse. “It’s goin’ to sound loud, but it won’t hurt you.”

A hat and head silhouette bobbed above the shadow of the knoll.

Texas Jay, I can’t believe you have lived this long. No one sets an ambush with the sun behind his back.

Then the hat, head, and shoulders shadow appeared. Som
eone stood in the stirrups up on the knoll, pointing a carbine down the slope.

“Andrews!” the rider shouted.

4

T
ap whirled in the saddle with his rifle to his shoulder. The metal gun sights fanned the horizon and locked on the silhouetted rider.

Don’t do it, Texas Jay. Nobody’s that dumb.

An explosion sounded from a carbine on the knoll.

Tap’s ’73 Winchester blasted in return.

A bullet cuffed the dirt ahead of the big gray horse.

Roundhouse hurtled toward the wagon.

The gunman on the knoll plunged backwards off his saddle into the baked, dry Wyoming prairie . . . and eternity.

Tap clenched the reins and snapped the panicked horse’s head to the left and began to circle him. Tracker and Cabe piled out of the wagon with guns drawn and took cover.

Lord, it’s like I get throwed from one crisis to another.

“Settle down, boy .
 . . settle down. Whoa, boy . . . it’s okay.” He stopped the horse from spinning and patted the gray’s fear-tightened neck.

There’s got to be a peaceful life and a peaceful horse—somewhere.

With Roundhouse back in control, Tap hollered, “It’s all right, boys. Nothing to worry about now. Let’s get on up to the river.”