My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand (Code of the West) (13 page)

“Six of ’em are still alive.”

“You bought six houses?”

“And a hotel.”

“What hotel?”

“This one.”

“You own the Alexandria?”

“Yes, ma’am. Ain’t that somethin’?”

Pepper looked at the kind eyes of the tall, strong man who had spent years looking after her and the other girls at April’s. “Stack, I can’t think of anyone who deserves a break more than you.”

“I can.” Stack’s shoulders slumped as he looked down at the white starched linen tablecloth.

“Who?”

“Rocky. I took a wagon out to the Triple C and dug her up two weeks ago. I had her reburied on the side of Pingree Hill and placed a big black stone marker on her grave.”

Pepper brushed back the sudden tears.

He never stops looking after them, does he, Lord? Even when they’re dead and buried.

“You have just warmed my heart. This is the greatest news I’ve heard since little Tap, Jr., showed up down here.” She patted her stomach.

“Is that what you’re goin’ to name him?”

“Not really. But that’s what Tap likes to call him.”

“Or her,” Angelita interjected.

“Miss Pepper, I can’t tell you how glad I was to walk into this room and see you sittin’ here. You girls was always family to me. Then you and Tap . . . well, I never took a likin’ to any man faster than that husband of yours.”

“Neither did I.”

“And I was just plannin’ on headin’ up to Pine Bluffs and look you two up as soon as this meetin’ is over.”

“Please do come by and spend a few days. Tap will love to talk to you, I’m sure.”

“I think I will. I’ve got a business deal I’d like to talk to him about.”

“What’s that?”

“Now I ain’t sure he’d be interested. But I got a chance to buy this ranch up in Montana Territory on the Yellowstone River. It’s a 50,000-acre spread with good water and grass, but I don’t know two squats about running cows. So here’s what I was thinkin’. If I put up the money, maybe Tap could put up the work, and we’ll halve the profits. You think he might go for that? I don’t want to be interferin’ with your family plans, but I’d sure like him to ponder it.”

Pepper sat staring at Stack Lowery. “Did I hear this right? Did you just offer Tap half interest in a big Montana cattle ranch?”

“Yes, ma’am. And I mean it. You think he might consider it?”

6

A
lthough well dressed, Colton Banner leaned over his plate scraping down big hunks of meat and gravy like a man who lived all winter off tree bark and old boots. He wiped his hand across his mouth and then on his napkin.

“You lookin’ for work?” Banner mumbled.

“I have more jobs than I can handle right now. Besides, I don’t rustle cows.”

Colton Banner’s head came up with a wild look in his eyes. His fork dropped to his plate, and his right hand shot inside his coat, but the sound of Tap’s .44 being cocked u
nder the table brought his hand back in sight—empty.

“Are you callin’ me a cattle thief?” Banner demanded.

“Aren’t you?”

“Now, now, gentlemen,” Selena cautioned. “It’s supper time. I didn’t come in here for you two to discuss business. I invited you to dine with us, Mr. Andrews, not shoot us. So if you’d slip that pistol back in the holster, we’ll all try to be more pleasant. Now just what kind of jobs have been keeping a married gu
nslinger busy?” Selena’s calm reflected her years of working in the constant confrontations of a dance hall.

“I’m a brand inspector out of Pine Bluffs.”

“It was you?” Again Banner’s hand went for his vest.

“Don’t be silly, dear. Tapadera would shoot you down in a flash.” Selena kept Banner’s hand from reaching inside his coat. He forced her back with a loud slap. She gri
maced but turned to Tap and tried to smile. “Would you like to order some supper?”

Most of the people in the room now stared at their table.

“Think I’ll eat somewhere else.” Tap scooted his chair back. “You’re choosing mighty poor company, Selena. Three of Banner’s men jumped me last week.”

“Yes, but you shot each of them dead, I heard. I’d say ever
ything is all squared away. I’d like for you to stay. We’ll just talk about old times.”

Tap glanced over at Selena’s flashing, almost pleading, brown eyes.
I’m not sure what she’s sayin’, Lord. Does she need me to help her?

“Besides, if you go now, you’ll never hear what’s really ha
ppening to the cattle down along the South Platte.”

“What’s going on?”

“See? I knew you would be interested. Tell him, Colton.”

“I ain’t tellin’ him nothin’.”

“Then I will. How many cows were those three cowboys pushin’ north?”

“Sixty-four.”

“Last drive up from Texas, how many extras did your bosses end up with?”

“You mean, how many strays did they gather?”

“Strays? Well, I suppose that’s what you call them. How many were in the gather?”

“About a hundred, I suppose.”

“Then trying to recover sixty-four of a hundred isn’t too greedy, is it?”

“Are you telling me Tom Slaughter’s crews stole your ca
ttle?”

“What I’m sayin’ is that they aren’t particular where the b
ovines came from, just so they end up with more than they had when they began. But what if some small ranchers on the South Platte always end up with cattle missing?”

“These were all TS beef before they had been r
ebranded.”

“You’re wastin’ your time talkin’ to the likes of him,” Ba
nner gruffed.

“Of course they were TS. The strays were sold off when they hit the tracks at Pine Bluffs. They’re probably all hangin’ in a Chicago meat packin’ plant.”

“You sayin’ rustlin’ is justified?”

“I’m sayin’ some folks don’t see it as rustlin’ at all.”

“Over the last fifteen years, 100,000 head have come up that trail. Many a head was lost to storms, stampedes, and Indians. Some of ’em brushed up and kept right on producin’. Those extras were unbranded mavericks.”

Selena leaned her head on her hands. “I can see we have an ho
nest difference of opinion.”

“Honest? There’s nothin’ honest about stealin’ cattle, no matter how you try to justify it.”

“We don’t want you eatin’ at our table,” Banner insisted.

Tap pushed away, shoved his Colt back into the holster, and stomped toward the front door. Chairs scooted behind him.

He heard Selena caution, “Don’t be a fool, Colton.”

“Shut up,” Banner snarled.

He won’t shoot me in the back, darlin’. Not in a crowded cafe. Not even ol’ Colton Banner is that stupid. But I don’t aim to give him a chance anywhere else.

“Andrews!”

It wasn’t Colton Banner shouting.

“Wait up.” Jacob Tracker dashed to the hitching rail. “You leavin’ already? We haven’t even had a chance to eat su
pper.”

“You’re on your own in there. I signed on to bring you through the countryside, but I don’t need to watch you at su
pper.”

“No, but you want to eat?”

“I’ll cook my own grub tonight.”

“Who was the man with the lady?”

“Colton Banner.”

“And who is he?”

“The one who pays wages to that gang in Horse Creek Canyon.”

“He’s in charge of the rustlin’?”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Well, well. Perhaps you should arrest him or som
ething.”

“I’m not a lawman, Tracker. Besides, I haven’t caught him with any stolen bovines. It’s just hearsay.”

“Cabe and I will finish supper. Where will you be campin’?”

“Up by that butte.”

“We’ll be up in a couple hours.”

“Keep an eye on your poke. Not everyone in that room will treat you square.”

Tap glanced back twice as he rode away from the stone barn at Running Water. Even in the twilight, no one followed him.

Camp turned out to be a low fire in a narrow trench—to hide the flames. Tap’s back was against a boulder, with Roundhouse, still sa
ddled, picketed not more than ten feet away.

Tap swirled coffee in the tin cup and ripped another bite of pe
pper-spiced jerky off the long, narrow piece. His rifle lay beside him on top of his saddlebags.

Long purple shadows stretched to the east as the stars b
egan their twinkling appearance. The air felt tired and smelled like dead grass. A campfire or two glowed closer to Running Water.

Lord, I never know what to do with men like Banner. They don’t draw on me. They hire someone else to do it. I’ll never catch him stealin’ cattle or anything else. Yet if he weren’t around, the others would wander off. He’s the type that wo
rries more about losin’ the sixty-four beef than he does about losin’ the men.

Tap pulled his revolver from the holster. With his blue tin cup in his left hand, he swigged a swallow of coffee, filtering the grounds with his teeth. He set the cup beside him and checked the cylinder of his gun, leaving the hammer set on the empty chamber, then r
eplaced the gun in the holster, and picked up the cup again.

I’m too hotheaded, Lord. You know that. You knew that before You saved me. I reckon You were hopin’ I’d change. But I don’t know if I can now. I don’t back down. I don’t take bluff. I won’t have someone threatenin’ me.

He thought of Selena and Banner sitting at the table.

I wanted him to go for his gun. I wanted an excuse to shoot him. I never even thought about her. Lord, protect Selena. I don’t know if she knows what she’s got ahold of. She needs a good break or two, but this surely can’t be somethin’ You provided .
 . . can it?

It was hot by sunup and blazing by noon. Tap rode ahead of the buckboard as they rambled down Old Woman Creek. They camped before sundown on the Leau Qui Court River. Tracker and Cabe spent most of the rest of daylight hiking to the top of the nearest butte to survey grazing lands on both sides of the river. The area resembled everything they had ridden through since they left Pine Bluffs—rolling prairie, thick, short dried grass, scattered rock ou
tcroppings, no trees except along the rivers or on the north sides of the few scattered mountains. Tracker and Cabe huddled by the fire and whispered plans late into the night. Tap easily ignored them.

The next morning they crossed the river, which ran no more than two feet deep. For two days they followed Black Thunder Creek and then the east fork of Lodge Pole Creek to some low rolling hills to the north.

Jacob Tracker pulled the buckboard to the base of one of the gradually sloping hills and parked it. He surveyed the landscape, turning in a full circle as he stood in the back of the wagon.

“This is it. This is the grazin’ ground I’ve been lookin’ for.”

“You think there’s enough water up here?”

“The creek runs in August, so I’m predictin’ it still has w
ater in November.”

“It might be a wetter year than normal.”

“This is the main year I’m worried about,” Tracker stated. “We’ll need to mark it off.”

“You makin’ a claim?” Tap questioned.

“I certainly want some kind of legal description before I settle with the Land Office.”

“You figure on payin’ $1.50 an acre?”

“Perhaps less. I surmise there must be 30,000 to 40,000 acres in this drainage. What do you think?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” Tap admitted, “but it will take you a few days to mark this out, won’t it?”

“I reckon so.”

“Then I gather my work is over. I brought you here. That was my part of the bargain.”

“Yes, you did. But I do have one more chore,” Tracker informed him.

Tap pulled on his bandanna and wiped his forehead. “What can I do for you?”

“I need you to ride to the nearest telegraph station and wire my trail boss with the location of this range.”

“You haven’t bought it yet.”

“It will take months to get all the paperwork done. I expect to have cattle grazin’ here within three weeks.”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“I’ve got a herd comin’ up the Goodnight-Lovin’ Trail. They crossed the Colorado border two weeks before we rode on up to Pine Bluffs.”

“How many head?”

“I’ve got 1,720.”

“You’re movin’ 1,700 bovines and don’t have a destination for them?”

Tracker swept his arm around the valley. “Oh, I have a destination now. Can you send the telegram?”

Tap rubbed his left leg but was unable to scratch the itch through chaps, duckings, boots, and socks. “Sundance Mou
ntain will be the closest station.”

“How long will that take you?”

“I’m guessin’ it’s fifty miles or so. Ridin’ by myself, it will take me a good day to get there . . . if I don’t get lost. I told you I don’t know this country.”

“You probably want to wait ’til mornin’.”

“Yep. I don’t aim on ridin’ through unknown territory after dark.”

“Let’s make camp by those scrub cedars,” Tracker su
ggested. “Might be a good place for a ranch house. What do you think, Andrews?”

Tap rode alongside the wagon. “I reckon so, but if I was li
ving here, I’d put it right on that tableland at the bend of the creek. You can see most of the whole valley and still have a windbreak—the bluff to the west. You ought to be able to dig a well. If the underground channel is anything like the surface creek, then there ought to be a pool of water right back there. ’Course, you can do whatever you want when you buy the place. My opinion doesn’t amount to much.”

Tracker stopped the wagon, and Tap reined up.

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve been thinkin’, Andrews. You interested in movin’ up here and runnin’ this part of the operation for me?”

“You want me to run a 30,000-acre spread?”

“Yep. I need to supervise things in Texas and on the trail. I need someone up here I can count on to hold it together when I’m gone. What do you think?”

“For salary or shares?”

“What do you want?”

“Both.”

“We can discuss the terms later. I like shares. That way you have a direct interest in the operation, too.”

“When are you goin’ to need an answer?”

“Soon. I’ll have the crew graze them until I get the paperwork settled.”

“What about Cabe? How does he fit in?”

“He gets his shares, too, of course. But he doesn’t have any interest in staying in this country any longer than he has to.”

“You can say that again,” Cabe bellyached. “I’ve already been out here a lot longer than I want.”

“What do you think, Andrews?”

“We might work a deal. You swing by Pine Bluffs with the patent deeds, and we’ll discuss it. I’ve got a wife that’ll be d
eliverin’ a baby in the fall. I’m not sure about the timin’.”

Tap spent the evening sprawled on his bedroll, his foot propped on the saddle, his head on his saddlebags. The first stars blinked in a fading gray sky. He was still wide awake when the sky grew deep black. The stars swarmed like fir
eflies above his head.

Lord, it’s next to perfect. A big spread far away from cities, saloons, gu
nfights. Nothin’ out here but fresh air and big blue skies.

I know, most days it’s windy. But we can live with that. We’ll need to build a ranch house, barn, bunkhouse, a shop, and some corrals. With half a dozen men, we can do that before winter. Angelita can help Pepper with the baby.

’Course, there’s no school for Angelita. We’ll just have to buy her a box of books. She reads well. Pepper and I can teach her all we know. That’ll take about three days.

After a few years, my share will be a nice little herd. Then we can get our own place, closer to a town if Pepper wants. Wish Wiley was still up in the north country; he’s a good hand. There’s always plenty of men lookin’ for work in Cheyenne in the spring. We can keep half a dozen during the winter.

We’ll need to freight a few wagons of supplies over here before winter. If Stack’s still runnin’ out of Deadwood, he can bring us some goods. Haven’t seen Lowery since May. Wouldn’t mind havin’ that big ol’ piano man winter out with us. Couldn’t offer him much, and he’s got a good-payin’ job.

We’ll have to bring sawed lumber in for the buildings. There’s just not enough timber around for log buildings. I could check out Sundance for supplies. I’ve got to find the quickest way to get there. This could be mighty lonely in the winters, I reckon.

“Andrews, you asleep yet?” Tracker called out from the fire.

“Nope.”

“Been thinkin’ about that offer I made ya?”

“Yep.”

Jacob Tracker strolled toward Tap. By instinct Tap slipped his hand down the handle of his revolver.

“I scratched out a telegram.” Tracker handed the stiff folded p
aper to Tap. “Just send it to the station at Bushnell, Nebraska.”

“Bushnell? You mean, you aren’t drivin’ them up through Pine Bluffs?”

“I told them to swing east. Too many herds around Pine Bluffs. I didn’t want them gettin’ mixed up with the others. ’Course, with your brand inspectin’ I don’t suppose I’d have had much trouble.”

Tap sat up and gently massaged his bruised left leg. “This rascal is startin’ to itch. Been thinkin’ about ridin’ to town t
omorrow without a boot so I can scratch it. You want me to wait in Sundance for a reply?”

“Nope. I’m not sure when the herd will get there. Head on home when you’re done.”

“I’ll probably drift back down on the Deadwood-Cheyenne road. You better do the same,” Tap suggested. “We left those boys at Shaver’s Crossing pretty steamed.”

“You were the one that got them stirred up,” Cabe r
eminded.

“Stirred ’em up? I saved your life.”

“I don’t need anyone to—”

Tracker boomed over Cabe’s protest, “When we get through here, we’ll come down the trail behind you. After I file for this land, I’ll stop by your place and talk to you and the missus about movin’ up here. You’re goin’ to be around Pine Bluffs for a while, aren’t you?”

Tap noticed that his hand was still on the walnut grip of his revolver. “I probably can work that out. I’ll muster out before daylight. I want to make Sundance as soon as I can. So I won’t be sayin’ any howdys in the mornin’.”

“I’ll give you your pay tonight.”

“It hasn’t been a full two weeks.”

“Don’t matter. You earned it three times over.” Tracker pulled out a leather bag from his vest pocket and counted out five twenty-dollar gold pieces.

“You’re carrying a lot of coin,” Tap mentioned.

“Don’t trust them greenbacks. .
 . . Don’t trust banks neither.”

Just how much money does Tracker carry with him?

Tap crammed the coins into his britches pocket and laid back on his bedroll. “If I were you, I wouldn’t trust Wes Cabe either.”

“I’ve got a score to settle with you,” Cabe hollered.

“Yeah . . . you and Ned Buntline ought go into writin’ dime novels together,” Tap replied.

Sometime later Cabe and Tracker got into a heated argu-ment that ended when both men grabbed the grips of their revolvers.

Lord, the deal of my life is opening up in front of me. This is the break I’ve been praying about. This could be our ranch.

Why is it I feel suspicious?

If Cabe’s a partner in this ranchin’ operation, You can deal me out. But if he’s back in Texas . . . I could give it four or five good years and have my own herd.

Just before dark the next day Tap and Roundhouse ca
ntered into the dusty settlement of Sundance Mountain. Tap’s left foot was bare, and his boot hung over the saddle horn. He swung down off the saddle on the right side and handed the reins to the dark-skinned livery operator with big Spanish rowels on his spurs.

“What happened to your leg?” the man asked.

“Horse kicked it.”

“That’s the ugliest-lookin’ foot I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Thanks.”

“You just stayin’ in town one night?”

“Yep.”

“That’ll be four bits. In advance.”

Tap dug some coins out of his vest pocket. “Groom him from the offside, partner. He kicks over there,” Tap instructed.

“An Indian pony?”

“Maybe. I bought him from the IXL down in Cheyenne.”

“That blue roan in the third stall belongs to an ol’ boy who used to work the IXL. Meanest horse I ever groomed.”

Tap grabbed his rifle and tossed his saddlebags over his shoulder as he headed for the barn door. “Is he lookin’ for a punchin’ job?”

“The IXL man?”

“Yeah.”

“Couldn’t say. He’s stayin’ over at Pinky’s.” The man b
egan to lead a reluctant Roundhouse inside the barn.

“What’s his name? Maybe I’ll look him up.”

The man stopped and glanced back at Tap. “You hirin’ cowhands?”

“There’s a real good chance of it.”

“He’s new in town. I think he’s called Odessa.”

“Lorenzo Odessa?”

“Don’t reckon I ever heard his first name.”

“Does he carry a hogleg with a twelve-inch barrel strapped almost down to his knee?”

“That’s him.” The graying man smiled. “You know him?”

“Yeah .
 . . I know him.”

Tap fought back the urge to go straight to Pinky’s. Instead he hu
rried to the telegraph office, sent Tracker’s message, and then, with Winchester still in hand, hiked back down the dusty dirt street toward an unpainted two-story, wood-frame building with a faded pink elephant painted on the false front.

The upstairs windows were all flung open, and white chintz cu
rtains fluttered in the breeze. A dozen horses lined the front. A full-bellied man wearing worn coveralls was sound asleep on his back on the boardwalk.

Pinky’s was part cafe, part dance hall, part billiard parlor, part h
otel, but mostly a saloon. The ten-foot-tall, narrow front doors were propped open with rocks. Smoke and conversation rolled out into the street. Tap stepped into the fifty-by-fifty-foot room. Once inside the door, he stood with his back to the near wall.

Must be some fellas figurin’ on a quick exit—the back door has a card game perched next to it. .
 . . Three barmen . . . a couple serving girls . . . and a few workin’ gals. And at the Faro table—Mr. Lorenzo Odessa himself.

Odessa’s sandy-blond hair almost stuck straight out u
nder his wide-brimmed dirty gray hat. Tap slipped around the side wall of the building. Carrying the Winchester in his left hand, he wove through the patrons until he hovered only a couple of feet behind Odessa.

Tap brought the barrel of the rifle up and let it rest on the nape of Odessa’s neck.

“Kiss your Mary goodbye, Odessa, ’cause you’re cashin’ in more than your chips this time.”

Odessa’s hand flew for the rosewood grip of his highly modified .45. But a shove of the rifle barrel on the back of his neck made the wide-shouldered man hesitate to draw the weapon. He didn’t turn around.

“Tapadera Andrews—the disgrace of Arizona. I rejoiced on the day I heard you were dead.”

“And I look forward to dancing on your grave, Lorenzo. By the looks of things, I won’t have much longer to wait.”

The Faro dealer stepped back from his layout. So did a dozen of Pinky’s customers.

“I regret savin’ your life when you were pinned under that dead pinto in the middle of Gila,” Odessa hissed.

“Me? It was you that was pinned under the horse when that redhead’s daddy chased you out of his hacienda.”

“That was me?”

“Yeah. And I was the one that had to duck buckshot and wade through hip-deep water.”

“But who was it that rode his cayuse into the Golden Duck, then got bucked off into the roulette table, and had to be pulled out b
efore a mob of screamin’ miners sliced him into little strips?”