Where the Deer and the Antelope Play (Code of the West) (2 page)

“Yeah. I’m goin’ to have a look around. I don’t think there’s more than a foot of snow anywhere but in the drifts. Be back in a couple hours. That ought to give me plenty of time to figure out how to handle the Rafter R boys.”

An icy barn, stiff leather and sulky Brownie who did not want to leave his stall. Tap faced it all with grit and worn dee
rskin gloves. He saddled and cinched the gelding. He pulled down some hay for the other horses and broke the ice off the water trough.

Yanking his hat down tight, he turned the collar up on his coat and mounted Brownie on the frigid saddle with taut duc
king trousers. He rode north of the barn.

Daylight streaked the sky over the snow-clad Medicine Bows to the east. Creeks had frozen weeks before and left them as ribbons of ice that laced through cottonwood ske
letons. Some tufts of brown grass jutted out of the snow beds of the little valley.

Low, rolling western hills were smooth like white, iced sand dunes. An occasional sagebrush broke the view. No clouds coursed the sky, but a purple morning tint si
gnaled a temperature below freezing, no matter how bright the sun.

Arctic air that bordered on pain rolled against his face.  Tap felt chilled to the bone before he lost sight of the barn. He tugged his ragged burgundy bandanna over his nose to warm the air that entered his lungs.

It’s a good day for stayin’ next to the fire and fixin’ up that old saddle. Who in the world would want to go out and rustle cattle on a day like this?

Tap pulled his Winchester ’73 from the scabbard. He shoved in several more cartridges from his bullet belt. He yanked his Colt and spun the chamber, then let it slip back into the Mex
ican double-loop holster.

I hate numb toes.

He remembered how old-timers wrapped their boots with flour sacks and crammed them into the tapaderas.

Pride. That’s all that keeps me from doin’ it. I wonder how many proud men have frozen to death?

The only sound was the steady crunch as the bay gelding broke through the snow crust. The steady, plodding rhythm caused him to drift off in thought.

Lord, I really don’t need a hassle from the Rafter R or from rustlers for the next few weeks. I’ve been hanging out at the ranch ever since that ruckus with Dillard and Barranca in De
nver. I’ve only been to April’s once and McCurleys’ four times. I don’t aim to do anything to upset things now.

A quiet winter and a quiet wedding. That's all I want.

Maybe I’ll ride into McCurleys’ in the mornin’. Hate to wait ’til Sunday to see Pepper.

The bawl of a cow tore away his attention. He struck Brownie with his spurs and trotted him towards the sound. Tap crested a rise in the valley floor and peered across at a small herd of cattle munching on what brown grass to
wered above the snow.

“What?” he choked.

Scattered among the speckled and blotched longhorns were several white-faced Herefords.

“Rafter R, no doubt. Brownie, what in the world are these cows doin’ in my herd? Besides catching Spanish fever?”

He trotted past the herd and followed their tracks back up the valley. Near Warm Springs he found where the Rafter R cattle had been driven down from the mountains and mixed with the others. In the crushed snow he found four sets of hoof prints.

They herded them down here and then hightailed it back to the high line.

He rode until he reached the first row of piñon pines and scrub cedars on the front edge of the Medicine Bow Mountains. Four horses in crusty snow left an easy trail.

Either they want someone to follow them, or they have no idea in the world that anyone would be out here.

Tap pulled the Winchester, cocked it, thumbed the hammer back until it clicked once, and laid the weapon across his lap. Brownie twitched his nose and lifted his head. Tap reined up and stared through the trees.

What do you smell, boy? Another pony? A fire? Where are they?

He rubbed the horse’s neck and studied the tree-scattered horizon.

There’s no way to sneak up on anyone in this snow. It’s like havin’ a military band lead the way.

He rode Brownie up to a stand of scrub cedars and dismounted.

“What are you smellin', boy?”

Tying the horse to a tree limb, he released the two bottom buttons of his coat and pulled the rifle from the scabbard.

“Wait for me. Think about warm barns and fresh hay. I’ll take a little peek and what's up.”

Tap shoved the bandanna back down around his neck and hiked higher on the mountainside. His legs felt stiff. His toes throbbed. The bones in his fingers smarted as he clutched the hardened-steel receiver of the rifle. The air burned his lungs, but it was the bitter taste that caught his attention.

Smoke! If you can’t see it or smell it, you can taste it.

The snow around the trees was softer. He crept from trunk to trunk to search for some sign of rustlers. About the time his boots felt like blocks of ice, he spotted shadowy movements below him in a clearing. Descending behind the cedars and pines, Tap sighted the small, but hot-burning fire. Several figures huddled around it. On the far side four unsaddled horses had been tied off to a rope stretched between two trees.

They don’t plan on havin’ to leave in a hurry. Four horses. Three men. Someone’s missin’. Or maybe one’s a pack horse. If they aim on runnin’ those cows south, they’ll need it. But those tracks sure didn’t look like one of those ponies was bein’ led.

He inched closer as he scanned the scattered trees around the fire.

Where’s that fourth man? Come on, you can’t stay away from the fire for too long. Where’d you drift to?

Tap crooked the rifle in his arm and tugged off his gloves. Blowing hot breath into his hands, he rubbed them together, then drew his Colt. He shoved a bullet from his belt into the one empty chamber. He holstered his revolver and blew on his hands again before pulling on the rigid leather gloves.

He gazed into the dancing yellow flames of the fire as a cold breeze caught the back of his neck and shivered all the way to the base of his spine.

If there’s only three of them, I could be waitin’ out here all day.

Tap decided to move in on the trio when he caught mov
ement on the other side of the horses.

There he is.

“It’s about time, Karl. We was thinkin’ you done got lost.”

The distant voices rang out distinct and clear in the s
ilence of the mountain air. Tap pointed his rifle toward the flames as he crept closer.

“You reckon them longhorns will bring as much as the white faces?”

“A beefsteak’s a beefsteak. Them miners don’t care what they eat.”

“Then we better get on the trail. If we ever get a first-class snow, we won’t reach Rico Springs until May.”

Rico Springs?

“Tell you all one thing, when we get the money for this batch, I’m headed straight for that dance hall at Pingree Hill. Them girls at April’s could warm a dead man’s blood.”

The big man called Karl circled the fire. “That Rafter R crew will be ridin’ down here soon. Let’s throw them back on the trail and get out of here.”

“They ain’t never followed us into Colorado before.”

“Let ’em come,” a blanket-covered man boasted. “Them drovers will hightail it back home as soon as a little lead starts flyin’.”

They never met Fightin’ Ed Casey, I presume.

“You three goin’ to squat there like grass widows at the box social, or are we goin’ to move some cattle?”

A man with wide black hat and blond beard jumped to his feet, waving a revolver. “Who you callin’ a grass wida?”

The big man's clinched fist the gun-waving man on the chin and sent him sprawling into the snow next to the fire.

“Don’t you ever draw that gun on me, boy.”

The man in the snow reared up, rubbed his chin and recovered his revolver.

“You do that again, Karl, and I’ll .
 . .”

If I had time, I’d just let them kill each other.

Tap pulled the glove off his right hand and lifted his Colt from the holster. With the cocked .44 and the rifle, he stomped to the fire. “If you men will just sit right there for a minute, I think we need to talk about some cattle. And don’t go pullin’ guns.”

The startled men spun around. The blond-bearded one pointed his revolver toward Tap, cocked the hammer, and b
egan to squeeze the trigger.

Tap fired his .44, striking the man in the right leg halfway between the knee and hip.

The man dropped his gun and clutched his leg.

“You done shot Jimmy Ray.”

““That’s one of the chances he took when he tried to kill me. Leave ’em holstered, boys. My next shot won’t be for the leg.”

“I told you the Rafter R drovers would follow us down here.”

“Karl, how many do you see? Are they back in the trees?”

Tap watched their eyes as the other three men searched the mountainside behind him.

“Help me, Karl, I’m bleedin’ bad.”

Tap stepped closer. “You be
tter tie a bandanna around that leg. But in this cold, it’s a wonder the blood will flow at all.”

One of the men with a blanket still around his shoulders moved toward Jimmy Ray. Ducking under the aim of the r
evolver, he lunged for Tap's feet. Instead, he ran headlong into the swinging barrel of the .44-40 rifle. The man sank to his knees.

Blood from his forehead dripped on the clean, white snow. Tap swung the barrel of the Winchester again and jammed it into the sto
mach of the big man just as he lifted his revolver.

“Unless you four plan on dyin’ right here, I suggest we talk a spell first.”

“You’re a dead man, mister. You can’t take all four of us,” the one at the fire growled.

“Two are down. If I twitch my finger even the sligh
test, old Karl here is gut-shot. That just leaves you and me. I haven’t ever seen you draw, but you know what I can do to your friends. So, you want to go for it?”

“Wait," Karl shouted. “We can talk.”

“I’m dyin’, Karl,” Jimmy Ray cried. “Shoot the—”

“You ain’t dyin’. Not yet anyway,” Karl insisted. “Help the boys, Hank. And if you'll back that .44 away from my gut, mi
ster, we can  talk.”

Hank helped the other two tie ba
ndages. Tap backed off but kept the Winchester in his left hand, the Colt in his right.

“You ain’t from the Rafter R?” Karl questioned.

“Nope.”

“You by yourself?”

“Now that’s somethin’ I reckon you four will just have to -ponder.”

“If you ain’t Rafter R, what are you doin’ up here in the mi
ddle of winter?”

“I own this ranch.”

“What ranch?”

“The Triple Creek. Don’t you know where you are?”

“Ranch? This is open land.”

“Nope. And those longhorns belong to me.”

“Longhorns have been runnin’ wild in these mountains for years. They don’t belong to nobody.”

“The ones with the TC brand belong to me.”

“Brand? We didn’t see no brand,” the one with the bleeding forehead declared.

“Mister, you can’t get us for rustlin’ your cows ’cause we haven’t touched ’em yet,” Karl protested.

“That’s right,” Jimmy Ray cried. “And those others came from Wyomin’.”

“Look, mister, we’ll saddle up and take our Herefords on south. We won’t cut out any of those longhorns, I swear. You can flip up that long-range peep sight and lead down the first one of us that gathers your calves.”

“Boys, those Herefords don’t belong to you. But I will give you a choice. You can either round them up and push ’em  back to the Rafter R and take your chances with Fightin’ Ed Casey, or you can mount up and head for Denver and let me take those cows home.”

“You ain’t goin’ to steal our cows,” Hank growled.

“There is another choice. I can just shoot you right here and let the buzzards pick your bones clean.”

“I’m a hurtin’ real bad, Karl,” Jimmy Ray whined. “I need a doc.”

“We can take him, Karl.”

“Hank, he’s got that Winchester pointed at
my
belly, not yours. There’s no question we could kill him, but I don’t aim to take a bullet just to prove that.”

“You’re a smarter man than I figured, Karl," Tap inte
rjected.

“I expect we’ll meet again sometime, mister,” Karl said. “I hope you’ll be packin’ a gun then too.”

“I reckon I will be.”

“Come on, boys, let’s saddle up.”

“We ain’t goin’ to jist leave him with our cows, are we?”

“Jimmy Ray, you’re lucky I don’t just leave you lyin’ in the snow.”

Tap watched them saddle their horses and load their gear. The barrel of his revolver followed Karl’s every movement. By the time they were ready to ride, he had stirred the fire into a blaze.