My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand (Code of the West) (21 page)

“They’ll try to flank us now,” Odessa shouted as he and Tap hu
nkered down and reloaded.

“You watch the rear with that carbine. I’ll keep some of them pinned down awhile.”

“You think they’re gettin’ discouraged yet?” Odessa asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

“But maybe those in the rocks are feelin’ a little better.”

“You’ve got to tell me when you spot Banner.”

“With all this gun smoke, I’m havin’ a tough time tellin’ a man from a horse, let alone finding Banner.”

The prairie dirt on top of the bluff absorbed the bullets. The report from the guns was so rapid Tap couldn’t tell how many were shooting back at them.

Lorenzo Odessa rolled over and shoved Tap down to a lower profile. “Them ain’t bees buzzin’, Tap.”

“You hear bullets? I, eh, don’t hear as good as I used to.”

“You are gettin’ old, Andrews.”

“No. It’s just too many gun barrels bouncin’ off my head over the years.”

“Same thing.”

Tap peered over the bluff and cranked up the long-range sight to the highest notch. He aimed for a dark-colored horse whose rider pumped repeated shots into the rocks.

I hate shootin’ good horseflesh, but I can’t hit the rider from this distance. .
 . . Maybe they’ll start thinkin’ they’re surrounded.

Just as Tap started to squeeze the trigger, Lorenzo’s ca
rbine blasted at a target behind them. Tap flinched at the explosion so close. The ’73 Winchester lifted slightly higher than he had intended. His rifle blasted away, and the rider on the dark horse plunged to the rain-dampened prairie. The horse bolted away.

Tap didn’t have time to follow his shot. He rolled to the right as Lorenzo rolled to the left, both men shooting back down the bluff as several riders approached from behind.

There’s no cover. There’s never any place to hide out here. Must have been what ol’ Custer said up on the Little Big Horn.

Six riders charged up the gradual grassy slope of the bluff. Lorenzo winged the one who led on the left, and Tap plugged the one on the right. The other four spun their mounts and ga
lloped back down the hill.

“Are they comin’ back?” Odessa yelled from a cloud of white gun smoke.

Tap turned back and stared over the bluff. “Not those four. They’re pullin’ back.”

Odessa crawled closer. “The whole bunch?”

“Yep. Looks like they’re goin’ after the herd.”

“You figure they’re givin’ up on killin’ everyone?”

Tap shoved more shells into the breech of his rifle. “Until they get a better plan, I reckon.”

“We won’t be able to hold on to this position if a bunch of ’em come chargin’ up the backside again.”

“Let’s see if we can get those cowboys out of the rocks and headed south.”

Odessa pulled several cartridges out of his vest pocket. “What about Cabe and Banner?”

“We can track them down with the herd.”

“How we going to make it to the rocks?”

“Right down the bluff. They’re too busy retreatin’.”

“You’re kiddin’ me. That’s almost a straight drop-off.”

“Almost is not the same as a complete drop-off. We don’t have time to make it to the horses.”

“Andrews, you’re as crazy as ever.”

“Come on, Odessa. It isn’t any worse than that time we rolled off into the Rio Grande.”

“At least we were in a wagon that time.”

“Only half the way down. Just don’t drop your gun and have it shoot me in the back. Come on . . . we’ll probably be able to walk all the way down.”

Tap swung his legs over the bluff and dug his heels into the san
dstone gravel. His rifle clutched in his right hand, he stood up and put his entire weight on his left foot. A sharp pain flashed up his leg to his hip. He stumbled, tried to catch himself, then tumbled to the gravel. Digging in his heels to stop the rapid descent, he instead somersaulted and rolled and bounced his way to the bottom of the cliff.

His left leg ached.

His right leg ached.

His arms ached.

His back ached.

His palms were rubbed raw and bleeding.

Tap rolled to his hands and knees and retrieved his hat. Shoving it on his head, he gasped for breath and glanced back up at Lorenzo. He was nowhere in sight.

He didn’t come down. He’s goin’ down the backside.

On his first attempt to stand, he stumbled and fell on his face. Finally he was up on his feet and staggering toward the rocks. One of the cowboys ran out and offered his arm, leading him back to shelter.

“Where’d they shoot you?” he asked Tap.

Tap collapsed against a boulder, trying to catch his breath.

“I’m okay. .
 . . I just took a tumble tryin’ to come down the cliff.”

“You did that on purpose?”

“Eh . . . it didn’t look so steep from the top.”

Several of the men scooted over to Tap.

“I don’t know who you are, mister, but all of you up on the bluff are surely an answer to our prayers.”

Another man scooted through the rocks toward them. “What are those bushwhackers doin’ now?”

“They rode back to the herd. You boys got to get out of here and head south to the railroad tracks before they come back.”

A man with a smear of blood on the right sleeve of his shirt crawled over to Tap. “We can’t do that. We signed on to deliver this herd to Jacob Tracker up at Black Thunder Canyon. We ain’t qui
tters.”

“You the trail boss?”

“Yep.”

“I’m the one who sent you that telegram from Sundance Mou
ntain. When I got back to Tracker, he’d been shot and killed. There’s no one waitin’ up there for you.”

“Tracker’s dead?”

“Me and Odessa buried him.”

“But who’s goin’ to pay us? Who owns this herd now?”

“Folks back in Texas. This herd was stolen. Where’d all you boys hire on?”

“Colorado, but we’re Texicans.”

“You don’t owe loyalty to any of these rustlers, boys. Tracker murdered some good Texans to steal this herd in the first place.”

“What about our pay?”

“Right now you need to get out with your lives.”

One of the wounded men looked up through pained eyes. “How do we know you ain’t just tryin’ to get us out in the open and then gun us down?”

“Tap?”

Tap spun around. Tom Slaughter scooted over with a ba
ndanna bandaging his shoulder. “What’s goin’ on here?”

“Tom, How bad is it?”

“I’ll make it. What’s happening?”

“I think Tracker stole these cattle in Texas, hired these co
wboys in Colorado, and intended to peddle the bovines off in the Black Hills this winter. As near as I can figure, Cabe double-crossed him, went in with a man named Banner, and came back to take the herd by force.”

“They thought they could steal 2,000 head?”

“1,720. They made it this far. We’ve got to get these men out of here before those rustlers get the courage to come back.”

“We ain’t been paid.” A voice echoed an earlier concern.

“Tom, you think the stock association can pay these boys?”

“We’ll cover wages until we get this sorted out.”

“Then why not consider the herd delivered, boys?” Tap advised. “Grab whatever ponies you can and ride south.”

An older, dark-skinned man with a Mexican sombrero hiked over to Tap. “I ain’t leavin’ the herd. I signed on to d
eliver ’em north of the Cheyenne River. That’s where I’m takin’ ’em.”

“But there’s no one there to take ’em when you get there.”

The man reloaded his revolver from a nearly empty bullet belt. “Then we’ll turn ’em out to pasture and go home. It’s the principle. Ain’t nobody ever goin’ to say Sal Guzman didn’t keep his end of the deal. I say we send the wounded back to Pine Bluffs, and the rest of us go after the herd. If they can steal it away, we can steal it back.”

“I know how you feel, but the odds aren’t good. How many do you have left to ride?”

“Eight of us. How many you got up there on the bluff?”

“Just me and Lorenzo Odessa.”

“The two of you made all that commotion?”

“Yep.”

“How many do they have left?” Guzman asked.

“Not more than twenty.”

“I’ve been in worse fixes.” The Texican wore shotgun chaps with big silver conchos. “This time we can do the sneakin’. They ain’t much in the way of drovers. I know we can out-cowboy them.”

“Yeah, but they’re bushwhackers and gunmen. Can you out-shoot ’em?”

“We’ve got to try. A man who loses a herd ain’t worth spit.”

“Sal’s right,” another man agreed. “Let’s go get our herd back.”

Tap tried to brush dirt and debris off his chaps. “We’ll ride with you if that’s your decision.”

“That makes ten of us,” Guzman proclaimed. “I figure ten doin’ what’s proper ought to stand against twenty who ain’t.”

They caught horses.

The wounded were tended.

They strapped the dead to horses.

And reloaded guns.

Bullets were handed over to those going after the herd.

With hoolihans thrown and latigos yanked tight, everyone was ready.

“I’m not going to be of much use to you,” Tom Slaughter admitted.

“You lead the boys back. Wire the Tobblers in Texas and make sure this herd belongs to them. And tell that marshal where I am. I’m comin’ to clear things up as soon as we get this herd back.”

“You got trouble with a U.S. Marshal?”

“Yeah. He claims Cabe and Banner signed a warrant a
ccusin’ me of shootin’ Tracker in the back.”

“Is he serious?”

“Pepper seemed to think so.”

“You want me to tell Mrs. Andrews anything?” Slaughter asked.

“Tell her not to worry. I’ve got everything right where I want it.”

“And that’s supposed to comfort her?”

“She’ll know what I mean.”

One of the men led Roundhouse back to Tap.

“Where’s Lorenzo?”

“Your partner? Didn’t see nothin’ but some tracks buckin’ their way over toward the buttes.”

He’s gone after them on his own. And I thought these drovers were crazy. Odessa might be the most insane Texican of them all.

With aches and pains in almost every part of his body, Tap tigh
tened the cinch on Roundhouse and slipped his rifle back into the scabbard. Then he grabbed the horn and shoved his throbbing left foot into the stirrup.

Oh, no. I can’t believe I mounted from the left .
 . .

Roundhouse bucked his hind hooves toward the clouds, then spun to the left. Tap couldn’t get his right foot into the stirrup, but he managed to keep one hand on the reins and the other clutching a handful of mane. The tall gray horse bucked across the prairie with Tap hanging on at each pai
nful bounce.

Finally finding the right stirrup, he spun the horse to the left, then to the right, and then raced him toward the place where he and Lorenzo had left the horses picketed earlier. He didn’t dare look back at the Texas cowboys, but he could ima
gine the grins on their battle-weary faces.

He quickly picked up Odessa’s trail in the wet soil. Lorenzo seemed to be following the high line north.

He’s keeping the roll of the prairie between himself and the herd. Ridin’ hard. Tryin’ to get north of ’em, I surmise. He surely has taken to settlin’ Selena’s score. Lorenzo and Selena? Lord, how many battles and fights have been generated by love? Or, at least, lust?

Leading the others west, Tap soon signaled for them to wait up. Then he eased Roundhouse up the hill just far enough to peek over at the herd of cattle. They were being driven west into Wyoming Territory.

He led the cowboys in a circle farther west and came to two rocky buttes that marked both the trail into Wyoming and the Nebraska state line. The herd was still a mile away.

“You reckon we ought to take ’em during the daylight?” Guzman questioned.

“Nope. Let’s swing out ahead and try to figure out where they’ll bed down. The herd’s too big to stop just anywhere. They’ll have extra night guard, but they’ll probably be lookin’ to the south and east. We’ll hit them from the northwest.”

“Then why are we stoppin’ at these buttes?”

“To pick up my partner.”

“I see the blue roan, but where is he?” Guzman stood in the sti
rrups on his paint stallion and surveyed the boulders. His big Spanish rowels reflected the light of the sun, his eyes the brassiness of twenty years on the trail.

“He’s up there.” Tap rode over to the base of the rocks. “Lorenzo,” he called out.

There was a slight ruffle of wind and the sound of frisky ponies dancing.