Where the Deer and the Antelope Play (Code of the West) (11 page)

The cloud cover hid the moon and stars, but the snow on the ground reflected enough light for them to distinguish the road from the black shadows.

I can’t hear. That blow to the ear . . . What’s goin’ on? My head’s still bleedin’. My knuckle’s busted. Feels like I got a broken rib. I’ve been shot and never hurt this bad. Lord, You’ve got to stop that ringing.

He yanked off his bandanna and tried mopping his for
ehead and ear. Even though most of his face was freezing, his right ear felt like it was on fire. He was starting to get dizzy. He seized the saddle horn with both hands.

Lord, somethin’s wrong here. .
 . . I’m not goin’ to fall off.

Tap set his feet deep in the stirrups, tried to lock his knees into Brownie’s flanks, and resorted to grabbing onto the forks of the saddle. He slumped forward but tried to push himself back up straight. Right after that the reins flopped to the deep brown mane of the horse. But Tap didn’t feel them slip from his gloved left hand.

The Arizona sun crackled with heat as he blinked his eyes open. His lips felt cracked and chapped. His mouth was so dry it hurt to open it, and his tongue felt as if it were the size of a beefsteak. Sitting up in the sand, he wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt and stared as a cloud of dust approached him.

What’s a stagecoach doing out here?

The bones in his arms and legs ached as he watched the coach toss and sway closer. The cloud of dust swirled over the top of him, and the stage came to a horse-snorting, rig-rattling, leather-creaking, passenger-shouting stop.

Tap was still sitting in the sand not five feet from a tall, one-limbed saguaro cactus when the door of the stage flew open. Pepper Paige stepped out wearing a long-trained, white we
dding dress covered with tiny pearls. On her head a white straw hat with white, lacy ribbon flowing down the back.

“You missed the wedding, Tap,” she shouted.

“Missed it?" His mouth felt very dry. "But I got hurt."

“That’s the last time you’re standing me up. You’ve been late three times to your own wedding. I’m not going through this again.”

“Th-three times?”

“Don’t you play dumb with me, Mr. Tapadera Andrews.” She got back into the stage and slammed the door. Then she stuck her head out the window. “I’m going to Tombstone and marry Billy Clanton.”

“Clanton’s dead. The Earp brothers shot him down last year,” he called as the stage began to roll.

"Oh, yeah? Well, he’s in better shape than you.”

He watched the stage roll up the mountain road. A tall plume of dust followed it out of sight.

Someone was grabbing his arm. The sun disappeared. So did the heat. The night was dark. It was cold. It was Col
orado.

“Stack?”

Lowery motioned for him to climb off the horse.

The ringing in his ear persisted, and he continued to shout as he struggled to get down off the horse. “Stack? Where are we? I can’t hear anything.”

Stack mouthed something, then led Tap toward a small, sagging log cabin no more than eight by ten feet. Leaning Tap against the door frame, Lowery plunged into the darkness of the cabin. In a matter of minutes, a small fire blazed in the fireplace. Stack mouthed something and signaled for him to come in.

Tap struggled to warm himself in a world of lapping yellow flames and loud ringing noise. Stack packed both saddles and gear into the cabin. He hung a canteen over a hook by the fire and sat down cross-legged on the floor next to Tap.

Leaning over to his left ear, Stack shouted, “That canteen will have to thaw out before you can get a drink.”

“What? Canteen .
 . . oh, yeah . . . frozen,” Tap hollered without hearing himself.

“You took a bad blow to the ear.”

“I’m mighty dizzy.”

“You need some sleep.”

“Why’d we run out?”

“They was plannin’ on shootin’ us.”

“What?”

“They was—”

“I heard you. What about the girls’ money? Are we giving up on findin’ it?”

Stack leaned back, dragged his bedroll toward the fire, and untied it. In the middle was a large leather pouch. He tugged it open and dumped the contents onto the blanket. Gold and si
lver coins tumbled out as well as several pieces of jewelry.

“Is that it?”

Stack nodded.

“Where’d you get it?”

“While you had Karl diverted, I dug in his saddlebags. Most of the money is still there. That jewelry belongs to April.”

“Diversion? Is that what I was doin’?”

“I ain’t never seen it done quite that way,” Stack admitted. “You were mighty brave to lay down in the middle of the street in the dark.”

“I slipped.”

“It surely spooked that horse. Don’t reckon he’s used to hearing voices from the ground.”

“Karl just about beat me to death. Why didn’t you help?”

“I was chasing down that spooked horse. Besides, they would have shot me if I had interfered.”

“Who?”

“The whole town of Rico Springs. They was bettin’ on the fight.”

“Who were they bettin’ on?”

“Mostly Karl. The old man with the powder burns made a bundle on you. Once the bets were collected, they wouldn’t have let us leave without a gunfight. Seems like every man you ever shot has a friend in that crowd.”

“Are they goin’ to follow us?”

“Not for a while. Half-Beard bought the bunch another round of drinks. And Karl and the others can’t tell them what money we took. The boys there aren’t too happy that April’s burnt down.”

Tap took the canteen, swirled it around in his hands, and gulped down a couple swallows. “I need some sleep.”

Stack was saying something with his face toward the fire.

“What?”

“I said,” Stack hollered, “I’m sure glad Pepper girl can’t see you now. She might change her mind. Now go on, get some sleep. Maybe you’ll dream about that yellow-haired girl.”

“No!”

“What?” Stack questioned.

“No more dreams.”

A crack of light filtered into the cabin when Tap opened his eyes. He was lying on his back on the hard-packed dirt floor, his blanket pulled up to his chin. His hat was mashed beneath his head like a pillow. His bones and joints ached as he raised up.

The saddles were gone. He guessed that Stack was outside rigging up the ponies.

He stirred up what was left of the fire and grabbed the canteen of lukewarm water. After taking a couple of swigs, he soaked his bandanna to clean the dried blood off his knuckles, hands, and face. His right ear felt raw to the touch.

“Stack? Hello.”
The ringing in my ear’s not quite so bad.

Pounding the crown of his hat back into shape, he gi
ngerly set it on his head and, buttoning his coat, stumbled to the door.

Stack Lowery was yanking the latigo on his saddle.

“Hey, partner, I think I can hear better.”

“That’s mighty good news.”

“What?”

Lowery walked over and shouted at Tap’s left ear. “That’s mighty good news.”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m thinkin’. Maybe this will clear up in a day or two.”

“You still feelin’ dizzy?”

“What?”

“Dizzy? You still dizzy?”

“Oh, no. I’m okay. You need some help?”

“Nope. I figure if you want to make it to McCurleys’ by t
onight, we’d best get started.”

“McCurleys’?”

“To see Pepper.”

“I can’t go ridin’ in lookin’ like this. It might be best if I stay out at the ranch a day or two and then go see her.”

“In that case, I say we ride back by April’s.”

“What for?”

“The fire will be cooled off. We can dig around and see if there’s anything to salvage. I’d like to be able to tell April we saved all we could. There might be some jewelry left, you know, silver and gold.”

Tap rubbed his hands together. “It sure is.”

“Sure is what?”

“Mighty cold. Shiverin’ cold.”

It got much colder.

Riding east, they took the brunt of the frigid air face-on. The clouds, dark and pregnant, dipped to the ground forming a fog that froze and encased everything in sight. It was what the Shoshones of Nevada called the
pogonip,
and Tap figured it might not be the cause of every infirmity, as the Indians claimed, but it surely aggravated all of his.

By late in the day, they finally arrived at Pingree Hill. His feet and hands were numb, his ribs ached, his ear throbbed, and his eyelashes had temporarily frozen to his eyebrows. Blinking was impossible.

Using timbers left from the dance hall, they built a huge bonfire across the road from the barn. About an hour after dark a horse trader from Helena rode up to the fire leading a string of five wide-bodied cow ponies. He turned the horses into the corral and joined them at the fire.

Tap watched as the man and Stack visited. Then a farm wagon with four prospectors bound for Arizona came in. A
fter that two drovers from Montana drifted in on broken-down horses. Then a farm tool salesman with a hard-sided wagon joined them around the fire.

Tap could see their disappointment at finding the dance hall gone. He could see their resignation and laughter, their ge
stures and proclamations. He just couldn’t hear anything other than the loud ringing sound and the crackle of the fire. He left to bury his bedroll beneath the large stack of hay in the loft of the barn.

Tap dragged himself out of bed before daybreak, and soon he had the bonfire revived. Every bone in his body ached—but none as severely as the right side of his head. After several cups of boiled coffee, he and Stack sorted through the ruins of the dance hall. Most of the others who had stopped by the night before had slept in the barn also, and all were on their way within the first hour of the day.

Tap wasn’t sure what to look for, but he did find several gold and silver lumps that he figured at one time had been coins. However, the high concentration of broken glass made sorting with bare hands dangerous as well as cold.

Stack salvaged several cast-iron pots and skillets from what used to be the kitchen. He found a little purple glass bottle with a glass stopper. The label was burned off.

“Come on, partner,” he shouted. “There ain’t nothing left here worth savin’.”

“You goin’ to take those pans?” Tap called above the rin
ging noise.

“Nope. They’re too heavy. It’s time to just walk away. Ever
ything’s gone.”

“What’s in the bottle?”

“It’s Rocky’s laudanum. Ain’t much left, but maybe she’ll get some sleep at night.”

Mounting their horses, they rode west. Stack pulled up on the first pass and turned in the saddle to look down on Pi
ngree Hill.

“Don’t reckon I’ll ever be back.” He sighed.

Tap didn’t hear many of the words, but he could read the meaning in Stack’s soft, brown eyes.

It’s his whole life, Lord. A woman like April to work for, some girls to take care of. He’s a decent man—livin’ mostly in an ind
ecent world.

Some parts of the shortcut from Pingree Hill to the Triple Creek Ranch were no more than seven feet wide, and Tap ma
rveled that Stack had managed to bring a wagon load of women through it in the dark. In places grass still showed through the snow. The sky was stuffed with clouds, but it didn’t snow. They rode two hours, then stopped to build a fire and rest the horses.

Mounting up, they repeated the process. Stack led the way. Tap rode with his bandanna tied around his face and ears. They didn’t slow down at sunset but pressed on through the dark of night. The horses set their own pace for the journey.

About midnight they broke out of the trees on the foothills of the Medicine Bows. They bypassed the house and rode straight to the barn.

It was still icy cold in the room, but Tap had the fire bla
zing when Stack came in and tossed the saddles down.

“Wiley ain’t back yet?” he asked.

“What?”

Stack shouted at Tap’s left ear, “Wiley ain’t back?”

“Nope,” Tap hollered. “No tellin’ what the roads are like up in Wyomin’.”

“I didn’t see any activity at the house. Did you?”

Tap looked Stack in the face. “You figure we ought to go over and check on the women? They might be pretty excited to find out about the money.”

Stack sat down on his saddle and tugged at his black stove-top boots. “Let ’em sleep. That little one ain’t cryin’; they must be all right. There’s smoke in the chimney, so they’ve got the place warm.”

Within two minutes of pulling the dirty wool blankets over his shoulder, Tap fell asleep to the sounds of continuous church bells ringing and two thousand crickets chirping in his right ear.

The air was biting cold, his back was stiff, and the room was pitch-black when Tap blinked his eyes open. He moved his hand across the floor and pulled his Colt .44 from the holster.