I'm Off to Montana for to Throw the Hoolihan (Code of the West) (13 page)

Tap pulled his .44 Winchester ’73 rifle, cocked the lever, and then gently released the hammer down to the safety position and laid it across his lap. He rode south along the creekbed, following the horse tracks. It took him over an hour to reach the mouth, which ended at the top of a rocky bluff overlooking the Northern Pacific rail lines and the Yellowstone River. Du
ring the spring runoff, the little creek would make a dramatic waterfall. Across the river were white cliffs that marked the beginning of the Crow Indian Reserve. He was still half a mile from the river. The first thing he spotted was a very long, unpainted wooden building.

“Roundhouse, what do we have down there? This is the craziest country. If you put a trail in a coulee and a building in a canyon, no one even knows they’re there. That is, no one but those travelin’ along the river or the rail. Come on, boy, let’s go visitin’.”

Tap and Roundhouse picked their way back and forth among the boulders until they reached the bottom of the cliff. The trail he followed out of the coulee swung left toward a sand bar reaching out into the river. But halfway to the water, a faint trail branched off and led to the building. The brush was thick as they paralleled the river back to the west.

He heard a gunshot inside the building. Cocking the hammer of the rifle back, he walked Roundhouse slowly out into the clearing. The building bore only a hand-painted sign: Starke & Cantrell, Goods & Services.

Tap threw his rifle to his shoulder when a man wearing a yellow sash dove out the doorway, flung himself off the front porch into the dirt, and fired several shots back at the open doorway. Then he crawled under the boardwalk porch.

Tap yanked a couple times on the reins. Roun
dhouse backed up into the brush. A shotgun blast ended the shooting inside the building. Tap waited for movement, but no one ventured through the door, nor did the man under the porch try to come out. Instead he rolled to his back and pointed his revolver straight up through the cracks in the boardwalk.

Tap debated whether to aim his rifle toward the open doorway or at the man underneath.
Lord, have mercy on ’em. I don’t even know which side, if any, is in the right. There’s nothin’ I can do but let them play their hand.

Then a man who looked about thirty, wearing a long-sleeved blue shirt and ducking trousers, stepped to the doo
rway with a shotgun in his right hand, blood streaming down his left. The man underneath the porch seemed to be waiting for him to take another step.

The man with the sho
tgun glanced down.

Both guns roared at once.

The wounded man with the shotgun crumpled to the porch. The man underneath screamed and grabbed his face, then rolled out from under the building. He staggered to his feet. His face still in his hand, he toppled onto the dirt in front of the store.

Tap waited in the trees, his rifle at his shoulder.

When there was no more sound or movement, he shoved his rifle back into the scabbard and dismounted. Tying Roundhouse to a bush, Tap stepped behind a cottonwood tree that had an eight-inch trunk. “Ho, in the store. I’m just a neighbor passin’ by. You need any help in there?”

No reply.

“I said, do you need any help? Are you hurt?”

With Colt .44 in hand, Tap inched his way toward the buil
ding. The downed man in the yard and the man on the porch didn't move or breathe. Cautiously peeking inside the store, Tap strained to see through the acrid gun smoke that hung in the air. A man’s body sprawled across several packing crates, wearing a yellow sash like the one in the yard.

Shot at close range with a shotgun. No need checking for a pulse.

A wide double door at the middle of the store led to the other end of the building. Tap swung one of the doors open slowly.

A saloon? The sign didn’t mention a saloon.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw a man sprawled under a worn poker table at the back.

All four died in the shoot-out?

As he approached, he could see the man’s chest expand and co
ntract.

This one’s still breathing.

Tap crawled under the table and gently turned the man over. “Where are you shot, mister?”

The man remained unconscious.

“Mister, I don’t see any bullet hole in you. I don’t see any blue lump on your head. You either fainted or passed out. From the way you smell, I’d say you’re drunk.”

Tap stepped behind the rough-cut wooden bar and grabbed up a blue enameled tin washbasin full of grimy w
ater. Holding his revolver, he tossed dirty water on the man’s face.

With wild red eyes and a startled expression, the man sat straight up, slamming his head into the frame of the solid oak table. He co
llapsed back to the floor. His worn modest dark blue suit, white shirt, and tie all looked as if they had been slept in for a month.

Tap’s boot toe prodded the man’s ribs. “Come on, mister, there’s been a little trouble here. Maybe you can help me sort it out.”

The man opened his left bloodshot eye and squinted at Tap. “I ain’t workin’ today. This is my day off. Go see Cantrell.”

“You work here?”

He talked with both eyes closed. “I told you this is my day off. Let me be. I’m enjoying the fruit of my labor.”

“Do you know Starke and Cantrell?”

“Yep.”

“Can you identify them? I think they might be dead.”

“They ain’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m Horatio Starke. I ain’t dead.”

The click of Tap’s gun cocked next to the man’s head brought both eyes wide open. “Listen, Starke, there are three men dead out here. I think you ought to take a look at them. Business is going to be mighty slow until you bury the bodies.”

Starke crawled out from under the table and struggled to his feet. “Dead? Are you sure? Dead?”

“Yep.”

“I need a drink.”

“You need a bath. Now get out there and identify the bo
dies.”

Starke stumbled through the door into the store side of the buil
ding and gazed at the body on the crates. He raised his hands. “Don’t kill me, mister. You kin have the money. It’s in a tin under the counter.”

“I didn’t shoot this man. I think your partner might have. I’m just a neighbor passing by who heard some gunshots.”

“You ain’t one of them yellow sashes?”

“Nope.”

“I was joshin’ about the money. There ain’t any over there in that tin.”

Tap prodded the man with the barrel of his Colt. “Go out on the porch. There’s a couple more out there.”

“That’s Cantrell.” Starke pointed to the man wearing the blue shirt, still gripping the shotgun. “We own this place. I guess he ain’t my partner no more.”

Tap searched for a pulse. He knew it was a waste of time. “How about the other one?” He pointed to the yard.

Starke tottered over to the man in the dirt yard. He kicked the body over with his stocking-clad foot. “He ain’t got no face left.”

“Kind of hard to recognize, I expect—”

“I think I’m goin’ to puke,” Starke gagged.

“You need help with these bodies?” Tap asked.

“Help?”

“You’re not going to leave them to rot in your yard, are you?”

“Eh . . . no . . . I need a—a—”

“A shovel?”

“A drink.” Starke turned toward the store.

“What about these men?”

“Don’t matter. I’m a dead man anyway.”

“How do you figure?” Tap pressed.

“Them two are in the Yellow Sash gang. They find out these two was shot dead here at the store, they’ll come after me. Cantrell should’ve given them the money.”

“Yellow Sash bunch?”

“You ain’t never heard of the Yellow Sash gang? You must be new around here.”

“I’m runnin’ the Slash-Bar-4.”

“May the Lord have mercy on your soul. They’ll probably be after you next.”

“What about this gang?”

“Ever’one of them’s mean, and ever’one will shoot you in the back if you ain’t lookin’.”

“No one’s been able to catch them?”

“Lots have tried. They either come back empty—or dead.”

“How long have they been gettin’ away with this?”

“They moved into this country with the railroad. They followed the lines—stealin’, cheatin’, bushwhackin’ workers out of their pay. When the line was completed, they settled in the hills down on the Crow Reserve and come raidin’ up here whenever they get short on supplies. Some say them Crows is in cahoots with ’em. Somethin’s got to be done. They got $4,000 off the Northern Pacific last month. We figured we wouldn’t see ’em ’til spring.”

“You were wrong.”

“Dead wrong.” Starke paused by the body of his partner on the front steps and then turned back to Tap. “Mister, you ain’t interested in buyin’ this place, are you? I’ll give you a real bargain.”

“Nope.”

“The N. P. might put in a tie sidin’ by March, and if they do, we’ll have more business than we know what to do with. Sure you don’t want to buy me out?”

“Not me.”

Starke shrugged. “I guess I better notify his kin. Told me he had a sister, Miss Carolina Cantrell, back east. Maybe she wants to buy the place.”

Tap gazed around.
An Eastern lady runnin’ this dump?

“You want to come have a drink with me?”

“I don’t drink.”

“You ain’t another one of them Quakers, is ya? Nah, I guess not. You’re packin’ a sidearm. I’m goin’ to have a drink.”

“And you can take care of these bodies. I’m goin’ back to the ranch. If the sheriff wants to get my story, send him out to the Slash-Bar-4.”

Starke was completely out of sight by the time Tap fi
nished his sentence. He hiked out to Roundhouse, mounted up, rode out three quick bucks, and headed back up to the grassland slope.

Angelita led a parade of children to the front porch of the big house, and Pepper stepped outside to survey the crew.

“This is Ellen Mae.” Angelita introduced the tallest of the Miller children. “She’s eleven and knows how to make quilts.” She moved down the row to the next tallest, a dark-haired boy with black trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt. “And this is Chester Leroy. He’s nine and—”

“I’m almost ten.”

“He’s nine,” Angelita repeated. “He claims he can stand on his hands and walk clear across the yard.”

“I can. Do you want to see me?”

“Oh, not right now, Chester Leroy.” Pepper smiled.

“Everybody calls me Chet—except for her.” He pointed at A
ngelita.

“This is Margaret Louise. She’s seven.”

“I’m six, and I can cook an apple pie.”

Angelita looked at the the little girl, whose face was set off by two long braids of sandy-blonde hair. “She looks mature for her age, don’t you think?”

“Is that good?” Margaret Louise asked.

“Yes. Now this is Ruth Raylene. She’s three.”

A little round face with shoulder-length dark hair peeked out from under a knit hat. Her coat was only buttoned at the top, and the sleeves hung well over her hands. She held out three chubby fingers. “I can count to ten,” she squealed.

“The baby’s name is Matthew Mark, and he’s eighteen months old. He’s not here because he’s busy . . . eating his di
nner.”

“Mother said she would come pay her respects when she finished with Matthew Mark,” Ellen Mae reported.

“There’s one more. His name is Peter James Miller, and he’s almost thirteen. He went with his father to try to round up the stock. He has dark brown hair, straight teeth, brown eyes, strong shoulders, dimples when he smiles, and he blushes very easily. But he doesn’t have a gold mine.”

Pepper laughed, “I think I’d like to meet him an
yway.”

“This is Mama. She’s not really this big all the time. She’s great with child. And she knows everything, except how to play the piano. We used to have a big piano she couldn’t play in our home in Cheyenne, but they burned down our house.”

“They burned up our house too,” Ellen Mae reported. “But my daddy’s going to build it back.”

“May we play on the porch, Mama?” Angelita asked.

“Yes, certainly. What are you going to play?”

Angelita sighed. “We’re going to play school. I get to be the teacher, of course.”

“Naturally. I think I’ll go for a walk. I need some fresh air.”

“Where will you go?” Angelita asked.

“Just out to the gate and over to the barn to look at the ponies. “How are Queenie and Albert doing today?”

“Albert is very friendly, but Queenie is more bashful than some almost-thirteen-year-old boys I know.”

After Pepper had circled the headquarters and checked on the yearlings, she swung around by the bunkhouse. A dark-haired woman, not much older than herself, carried a baby in blanket out on the porch.

“Mrs. Andrews?”

“Mrs. Miller.”

“I can’t tell you how much we appreciate you allowing us to use the bunkhouse.”

“I’m glad we can be neighborly. Tap and I figure it’s one of the reasons the Lord allowed us to have this place.”

“Mr. Andrews is a believer?”

“Yes, but it’s a struggle for both of us. We weren’t raised in the faith, and it’s still very new.”

“It looks like you’ll be delivering in a week or two.”

“The doctor in Pine Bluffs assured me it would be the first of November. But I’m not sure he’s right.”

“He’s not. Trust me, I know.”

“Please call me Pepper.”

“And I’m Lucy. How many children do you have?”

“This is my first. Well, that’s not quite right. I lost an earlier child I carried for eight months. And Angelita is the daughter of a friend of ours. Her mother died, and her father was crippled by a bullet. We’re raising her, at least we’re trying. We love her dearly, just like our own, but she can be impetuous at times.”

“She certainly has captured the imagination of my whole clan. They follow her around like baby quails after their mother.”

A sprinkle of rain hit Pepper's face as she noticed Mrs. Miller’s tired eyes. “Come up to the big house after a while for a visit. I’ll boil some peppermint tea.”

“Is Mr. Andrews home?”

“No. He had to go look at the cattle. But even if he is, it would be no bother.”

“I’d like very much to visit with both of you,” Mrs. Miller admi
tted. “It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone to talk to.”

“When Tap comes back, I’ll send Angelita over to call you.”

Mrs. Miller sighed. "That would be delightful. I really need your advice.”

6

F
our miles from headquarters the gates of heaven opened, and water thundered to the earth. Each drop of rain seemed to be shot out of the sky, hitting the dry Montana sod like a bullet, blasting up a plume of dust. But the raindrops didn’t stop. And soon each drop was splashing onto mud.

Tap pulled on his yellow slicker, shoved the stampede string tight against his neck, and slumped in the saddle to keep the water rolling off his broad shoulders. As he turned north away from the river, the wind picked up, and the rain swept diag
onally across the grass prairie incline.

It’s a lousy place to be stuck in a storm, Lord. No shelter, no firewood, no cabin, no cave. When the clouds block the mou
ntains, there’s not a landmark in sight. If this was blowin’ snow, a man could wander around in circles and never find his way back in.

We ought to build a little line shack down here. Just a storm cabin. Put a man in it through the winter. He could keep the cattle from drifting into the river .
 . . and the bushwhackers from coming up on the ranch. Ought to build another cabin up on Cedar Mesa. I don’t want to lose cows in the mountains. With just 500 head though, I won’t need to do it this winter. Maybe I’ll keep some of the spring branding crew through the summer if they can carpenter.

Even though the top button on his slicker was fastened tight against his neck, a stream of cold rain soaked through the collar of his shirt and across his shoulders. His ducking tro
users sponged the brisk rain, which dribbled down his legs into his boots.

Well, Pepper darlin’, we’ll find out if the roof leaks today.

Tap peeked out from under the now-limp wide brim of his beaver felt hat but could see no sign of the headqua
rters.

His left arm burned along the wound. His wet ducking tro
users grated against the insides of his knees as they gripped Roundhouse’s flanks. Even with his hat pulled down, the icy rain ran off his ears, nose, and chin. His wet leather gloves felt as if they weighed five pounds each.

Roundhouse dropped his head and settled into a fast walk. The storm clouds hung so low and heavy it seemed like su
ppertime, but Tap knew it couldn’t be later than midafternoon.

He cut across the drive leading up to the headquarters and turned the gray gelding north. Even the slosh of the downpour didn’t co
mpletely obliterate fresh carriage tracks.

Looks like the newlyweds made it home. Don’t reckon anyone else would drive a two-horse carriage out here. That’s good. If the weather breaks by mornin’, Odessa and I can ride along the mountains and build up those bou
ndary markers.

A rivulet of runoff water streamed across the drive as Tap finally reached the twelve-foot-wide, unpainted wood front gate. The big house was on the highest spot, but all the ground sloped to the south in the direction of the Yello
wstone River. The only standing water of any consequence that Tap could spot was in the corrals in a low place made by milling animals and by scooping out manure.

Tap walked Roundhouse through the open door of the barn. Howdy Renten was brushing down a big black horse, while another, with feed sack tied around his nose, stood tethered to an iron hitc
hing ring. In the breezeway at the back of the barn stood a new black carriage.

“I think it might rain today,” Howdy called out as he glanced up at the soaked Tap.

“Won’t amount to much, I reckon,” Tap replied, unloading from the right side of the saddle.

“Nah .
 . . a man probably won’t even get wet.”

Tap pulled the saddle off Roundhouse and slung it and the wool saddle blanket on the partition of an empty stall. “So Mr. and Mrs. Odessa returned home?”

“About an hour ago. Headed straight for the cottage, I surmise,” Renten added.

Tap stepped over by the black carriage already wiped clean of mud. “She’s a real beauty, isn’t she?”

Howdy didn’t look up. “That she is. A real beauty. That Odessa is a lucky man.”

“I meant the carriage.” Tap laughed.

“I thought we was talking about Mrs. Odessa.”

“Obviously.”

“Do either one of them women know what they’re gettin’ into, marryin’ the likes of you two?”

“Nope.”

“Just as well.” Howdy spat a wad of tobacco out into the middle of the barn floor. “Say, Odessa did have a message for you.”

“What’s that?”

“The sheriff was scoutin’ around town, mountin’ up a posse.”

“A posse?”

“Them two old boys you left flat in the livery got themselves patched up enough to go down and rob the River Valley Bank of over $2,000.”

“Jackson and Bean? They don’t seem like the bank-robbin’ kind.”

“The sheriff thinks them two might try to ride down and join up with that Yellow Sash bunch. Have you ever heard of them?”

“Just today. Some of them caught lead down at a little si
ding joint by the river. I heard they’re staying on the Crow Reserve. What’s that have to do with us?”

“Sheriff says they might swing out on this side of the river to throw ’em off and then cross around at Bull Mountain ferry. He asked us to be on the lookout.”

“We won’t find many tracks after a rain like this,” Tap pointed out.

“You go get out of them wet clothes. I’ll rub and grain the big gray.”

“He’s got a tendency to kick if you get too close to that left side.”

“So do I.” Howdy winked.

The house felt warm and slightly stuffy as Tap pushed open the front door. He carried his rifle and his saddlebags. Pepper sat on the leather sofa, her feet propped up on a pillow, an open Bible in her lap.

“Well, Mr. Montana Rancher, how’s our place look in the rain?”

“Wet.” Tap tossed his saddlebags over the back of a straight oak chair and propped his rifle against the wall near the front door. “You got any coffee?”

“On the stove in the kitchen. I’ll get it for you.”

“Stay right there, darlin’. You look too comfortable to disturb.”

“Thanks.” Pepper slumped back against the sofa.

Tap returned from the kitchen with two porcelain cups steaming with coffee. “Here you go, darlin’.”