My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand (Code of the West) (9 page)

“Whatever you got ain’t worth your life, now is it?” the man with Cabe’s gun put in. “Either give us your goods, or we can just shoot ya and take it off ya. Don’t make no diffe
rence to us.”

Tracker searched the room. Tap kept out of sight behind the trunk.

“We got two at the table and two at the door. You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” the bartender insisted. “Now where’s the money? Are we goin’ to take it dead or alive?”

“You aren’t goin’ to take it at all.” Tap raised up from b
ehind the large trunk, his .44 cocked and aimed at the head of the bearded man. “Tell the two at the door to keep their guns in their holsters or you’re a dead man, mister.”

The bearded man waved his hands.

"You cain’t take on seven men, mister,” the one with the knife to Tracker’s throat hollered.

“I just did.”

“We’ll kill ya. You won’t get out of this,” the bartender insisted.

“But at what cost?”

“I can slice this man’s throat in a flash,” the drunk said.

“You do and your boss over here at the table is dead.”

“You ain’t that good of a shot.”

“The bullet will enter his head about halfway between his hat and his left eye,” Tap asserted.

“But this here man will be dead.”

“And the other one, too,” the man with the gun on Cabe added.

“That might be. My second shot will hit the big man at the door in the belly. I’ll need to shoot fast, and I want a target I can’t miss.”

“You’re crazy,” the formerly sleeping drunk challenged. “We’ll gun you down before you get to the door.”

“Maybe, but two of you will be dead. And I’m mighty sure I can kill another and maybe sink lead into two more before I cross that last divide. You’ve got to figure out if all this is worth it.”

“How do we know you’re that good a shot?” the bearded man demanded.

“Ask Texas Jay. But he won’t say much ’cause he’s laying dead on the prairie.”

“You kilt Texas Jay?”

“With a shot about halfway between the brim of his hat and his left eye. Now let those two go right now.”

“We ain’t goin’ to do it.”

“Then kill them.”

“What?” Cabe shouted.

"Kill ’em so I can pull this trigger and send your boss to his just deserts.”

“Wait,” the bearded man called. “Turn them loose.”

“Now,” Tap hollered.

“There’s other ways to lift a poke,” the boss insisted.

“Slide that revolver back into Cabe’s holster,” Tap commanded. “Tracker, you and Cabe roll the buckboard out onto the ferry. We’re crossin’ right now.”

“You ain’t leavin’ alive,” the big man at the door a
nnounced.

“Of course I am. Now you two get your tails over by the bar.”

The bearded man signaled to them.

Tap scooted toward the door with his .44.

“We’ll track you down and kill ya, mister,” one of the men hissed.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I’ll tell you what will happen for sure. I’m goin’ to shoot the first one who comes out this door.”

“You ain’t scarin’ us none.”

“I’m just givin’ you fair warnin’. Whoever steps out of that doo
rway before we cross the river will be shot on sight.”

The bartender plastered the wooden floor with another wad of tobacco juice. “You cain’t hit the side of this building from the river.”

“That’s the same thing those three old boys rustlin’ sixty-four head of TS beef must have thought. They jumped me from two hundred yards away. I suppose you heard what happened to them.”

“They was shot between their eyeballs and the brims of their hats,” one man muttered.

The biggest of the bunch wiped his hand across his mouth. “You did that?”

The man with the beard said, “How do we know he ain’t bluffin’, boys?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Tap offered. “Step out on that porch. How about it, boys? I figure the boss over there in that captain’s chair ought to be the one. He seems to have the most doubts about my ability.”

“You don’t just ride away from the Platte River Boys.” The ba
rtender smirked. “You better be watchin’ your backside, mister.”

“It’s a cinch you wouldn’t have the guts to come straight at me.”

Tap backed out and closed the heavy wooden door. He limped over to Roundhouse and pulled the ’73 out of the scabbard.

With the gun cocked and the long-range sight flipped up, he u
nhitched Roundhouse. Walking toward the river crossing, he kept the horse between him and the building.

Tracker and Cabe had the buckboard loaded on the steam-driven ferry that was no more than a large, flat raft hooked to cables. Cabe held a gun to the ferryman’s back and got the craft moving the se
cond Tap walked Roundhouse onto the rough-sawed wooden planks that served as flooring. With the gun at his shoulder, Tap continued to wait for someone to exit the building.

“I can’t believe no one followed you,” Tracker commented.

“I guess they believed the bluff. They’re smarter than they look.”

“Thanks for bailin’ us out,” Tracker added.

“Not that we couldn’t have taken care of ourselves,” Cabe assured them.

“Don’t be stupid, Wes. We were about to be robbed and shot dead.”

“I could have handled it. They weren’t goin’ to shoot nobody. I ain’t thankin’ no one.”

“I’m sorry I interfered with your plans," Tap replied. "I was just watchin’ your backside like you hired me to. If I had already r
eceived my funds, I could have just let them plug you. When we head back, I suggest we stay on the Deadwood Road and cross at Ft. Laramie. These are hide-in-the-bushes-and-shoot-you-in-the-back boys around here.”

“Anyone runnin’ cattle out this way is goin’ to have to put up with the likes of that mob. Why don’t the authorities do som
ething about the horse thieves and robbers along the river?”

“"Cause this part of the county has only one deputy. He doesn’t want to take them all on by himself. But if you’re g
oing to drive cattle up here from Pine Bluffs, it could be a problem.”

“That’s exactly why I needed to ride this trail. I want to know what I’m gettin’ into. You reckon they’ll follow us?” Tracker quizzed.

“Maybe. That’s why we’re not goin’ to let this ferryman know which direction we’re headed.” He turned to the older man in the tattered navy blue captain’s hat. “What’s it cost to ferry a wagon and a horse?”

The old man spat a chaw of tobacco far out into the river. His stained, grey long-handled shirt looked like it hadn’t been washed in a year. “At gunpoint?”

“Regular.”

“It’s $2.50 for the wagon, $1.00 for the horse and rider.”

“He’s right,” Tap replied. “A man shouldn’t have to ride his own ferry at gunpoint. Give him $5.00, Cabe. It will be a bonus.”

“What? We don’t have to—”

“Sure we do. He did a good job under adverse conditions. He deserves to be paid well.”

Tracker nodded. Cabe dug out some money.

“You ain’t goin’ to shoot me when my back is turned, are you?” the old man asked.

“Nope.”

“I’m obliged to ya fer bein’ generous. I surmised I was doin’ this for free, and now I get extree. Yes, sir, the day’s turnin’ out better than I reckoned.”

It was strictly a defensive camp.

Riding west until dark, Tap turned them north up Rawhide Creek and into the rolling hills. Their buckboard narrowed the choices of flight and completely eliminated any chance of stealing away undetected.

After watering the horses in the creek, they drove the wagon by moonlight to the mouth of a steep little coulee and parked it across the entrance. The horses were picketed behind the wagon in the pr
otection of the gulch. Tap left his saddle on Roundhouse but pulled off the bridle.

He sat cross-legged in the back of the buckboard sta
ring out into the night. The other two stretched under the wagon, but he knew they were awake. He could smell the aroma of their cheroots.

The moon was three-quarters full and perched slightly to the southwest. The stars seemed blasted into the sky like u
nfading Fourth of July fireworks. A whining chorus of cries from a coyote family drifted by like a memory that won’t settle down. Tap hung his dusty black felt hat on the brake handle of the wagon.

Shoot the hat, boys.

Hot.

Dry.

Dark shadows.

He wiped his forehead with his bandanna, then retied it, le
tting it droop deep on his chest away from his neck. Tap unrolled a leather pouch, and even in the dark he found the small, thick glass bottle and a square patch of cloth. Opening the sliding gate on the rear of his Winchester, he pulled out the cleaning rod and began to screw the sections together.

Cleaning and oiling his guns was something Tap could do in the dark—with his eyes closed .
 . . half-asleep.

His hands continued the cleaning.

His eyes stared straight out into the night.

If that Platte River gang was goin’ to jump us, it would be at night. Or from behind. We won’t see them in daylight. They’ve got to be cleaned out, Lord. All those rustlers and thieves in the coulees and brush have got to be driven out of this country, or it will never settle down.

But I’m not the one. I’ve got a wife . . . a baby comin’. It’s not my job, Lord. I can’t go on livin’ by the gun. Some parts of the country are settlin’ down. Maybe I should just pack up Pepper and Angelita and move us to . . . to California. We could buy ourselves a little place along the foothills . . . maybe Sonora . . . Grass Valley . . . Placerville. Raise some beef to sell to the miners, plant a garden, braid a few
reatas,
peddle hackamores and
mecates,
sit in the shade of big valley oak and watch the kids grow
.

The distant whine of the coyotes ceased. Tap looked more i
ntently out into the darkness. He laid aside the cleaning rod, slowly cocked the lever of the rifle, and then put the gun to his shoulder. A horse whinnied behind him. He hunkered down in the wagon to make sure there was no silhouette.

He waited for a twig to snap.

A glow of a quirley.

The clomp of a hoof.

A signal whistle.

Any shadowy movement.

Finally, he sat back up, released the hammer of the rifle back down to a safety position, and reached over for his leather-wrapped canteen. The swig of water was tepid, slightly alkaline. He leaned his head and poured some down the back of his neck. Coolness ran down his back and dripped on his chest. His shirt clung to his body.

Either no one’s out there or it’s Indians. That bunch at the crossing couldn’t sneak that well.

The next six hours he spent dozing in and out of dreams about ranches in green rolling hills, babies crying all night, and coyotes howling at the moon.

At the first break of daylight, Tap fell out of the buckboard. He hadn’t planned on tumbling to the dirt.

Cabe vaulted out of his bedroll and began firing his .45 randomly at the creek. “They killed Andrews,” he shouted.

Tap could hear the lever of Tracker’s carbine cock. Still l
ying flat in the dirt to avoid Cabe’s wild shooting, Tap hollered, “Put the guns down, boys. I didn’t get shot. I just fell out of the wagon. I sat cross-legged most of the night, and my injured left leg lost all feeling. It collapsed the minute I put weight on it.”

With one hand on a spoke of the wagon wheel, Tap pulled hi
mself to his feet and brushed the dirt off his stiff light brown canvas britches.

Later, sitting around a breakfast fire, he tried pulling off his stove-top black boot. His left foot had swelled so much that the boot wouldn’t budge.

“You think they’ll be followin’ us today?” Tracker asked him over a blue tin cup of steaming coffee.

“No. They aren’t a daylight bunch. And they don’t seem too a
nxious to face three guns. I figure they’ll look for something
easier.”

Tap scraped his knife across the plate of beans and dunked his last bite of hard bread into his coffee before plopping it in his mouth. The lump scalded his throat as it went down.

“If you boys don’t mind, I’d like to ride the wagon this mornin’ and keep my foot up. It swelled to where I can’t pull off my boot.”

“You figure that leg’s busted?” Tracker asked. “Maybe you ought to ride up to Ft. Laramie and see a doctor.”

“I knew a gambler in Tucson by the name of Nacemiento who fell out of a two-story window and busted his leg. Got gangrene and died within two months,” Cabe added.

Tap glanced over at him and shook his head. “You always this cheerful?”

They rolled out of camp about the time the sun was a huge orange ball above the distant Sand Hills of Nebraska. They creaked and bounced their way to the east of Rawhide Mountain, up Red Cloud Slew, which was as parched as the prairie itself, and on across the uninterrupted dry grasslands that sloped gently down toward the Leau Qui Court River.