My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand (Code of the West) (4 page)

Pepper’s right. Until this land settles down more, this isn’t much different from marshalin’. I never could figure who would want to die over a few head of cattle .
 . . and here I am puttin’ my life on the line for those same bovines.

Lord, if You bring us a little Tap, Jr., I promise You he’ll learn a trade. Something besides gunslingin’.

He decided to stop to water and rest Roundhouse at Antelope Springs. From a distance of fifty yards, he spotted two horses where the spring had kept the grass still green. Tap pulled his Winchester and laid it across the saddle horn.

One of the men tarried near his horse; the other huddled with a frying pan over a very small hot fire that was set down in a narrow trench.

“Ho, to the springs,” Tap yelled. “I’m comin’ in to water my pony.”

“Come on in, pard. You’re welcome to join us.”

The man by the buckskin gelding was short and rawboned. A two-week beard of brown hair and dirt covered his chin. His shallow eyes focused on Tap’s rifle. The other man was barrel-chested and stocky. When he stood up, he had a smile as wide as his thick mustache. His eyes squinted as if he were permanently peeking out from an almost closed window.

Tap stepped down from the saddle and pulled his hobbles from around the horn. While Roundhouse drank, Tap slapped the r
estraints on the horse’s forelegs and shoved his rifle back into the scabbard. Then he walked over to the others.

The bigger man with the thick mustache looked him right in the eyes. “’Scuse me for starin’, mister, but you remind me of someone I knew down in Arizony.”

The smaller man stepped closer toward him. “We jist rode up from New Mexico. Maybe you can help us find an old boy who promised us jobs. Providin’ you ain’t the law.”

Arizona? I don’t know if I want to know this man.
“Who you boys lookin’ for?” Tap finally asked.

“I’ll be Lucifer’s uncle. You’re Tap Andrews. “I heard you was killed at that massacre at Navajo Rocks.”

Tap’s right hand inched down until it rested on the walnut handle of his Colt .44. “You know, partner, I can’t recollect who you are.”

“Snake Dutton. I was at A.T.P. last year when you e
scaped.”

Silvan Potter “Snake” Dutton, #392, grand larceny. A petty, whinin’ horse thief.

“Snake? No foolin’. You look healthy and strong. You didn’t get that way in prison.”

“No, sir, I wintered out with the Pueblo Indians north of Taos. Now I’m ready to go to work.”

“How’d you get out of Yuma?”

“The governor announced it was gettin’ too crowded, so he o
ffered some of us a pardon if we’d leave the state. Seemed like a fine arrangement to me. Shoot, I should have known they didn’t stop you. This here’s my partner, Texas Jay.”

Tap tipped his hat. He noticed the little man seemed ready to draw his weapon. “Is his hand glued tight to that Colt, or is he aimin’ to shoot me in the back?”

“Relax, Texas Jay. Tap here knows what it’s like to get chased out of Arizony. Besides, he could kill you quicker than a hog kills a rattlesnake.”

“Maybe he ain’t that good anymore,” Texas Jay cha
llenged.

“You ain’t goin’ to find out today. We got work lined up, and I promised Banner two men.”

Texas Jay stalked over to the fire. “You ain’t workin’ for Colton Banner, are ya?”

Tap squatted down on his haunches and kept both men in view. “Afraid not. In fact, I don’t even know anyone named Colton Ba
nner. Is he runnin’ cattle up this way?”

“Somewhere north of here. He’s got a corral up by a place called Lone Tree Creek.”

“Lone Tree must be a hundred miles north,” Tap advised.

“You don’t say. I was hopin’ it was a little closer. You might as well spend the nooner with us. We can talk about old Ar
izony.”

“Thanks for the invite, Snake, but I haven’t been on the trail more than an hour and a half. I better ride on.”

Tap returned to Roundhouse and retrieved his almost full canteen, topping it off at the springs. Snake Dutton busied himself cooking over the fire, but Texas Jay never took his eyes off Tap.

Tap walked his gray horse over by the fire. “I hope you boys find this Bonner.”

“Banner. Say,” Dutton shoved back his high-crowned, narrow-brimmed black hat. “You ain’t lookin’ for work, are ya? I heard Banner lost three men just yesterday, so I’m sure he needs more.”

“Lost them? You mean his crew’s quittin’?”

“Quittin’ nothin’,” Texas Jay exclaimed. “They got bushwhacked.”

“Oh?”

“Yep . . . a dozen or so of those Cheyenne City bummers rode into camp and leaded ’em all down.”

“I heard tell they was shot right in the forehead, all three of ’em.”

“Where did you hear this?” Tap asked. “I didn’t hear anything about an ambush.”

“Some old boy who woke up broke back in Pine Bluffs came ri
ding our way this mornin’ and told us that a posse rode out yesterday afternoon after a hide wagon brought in the bodies. And I thought Arizony was rough.”

“Are you sure those three worked for your friend Banner?”

“I ain’t certain, but I heard that one of them was Dirty Al Bowlin who came up in the spring to work for Banner. So unless he decided to have a go on his own, he must have still been workin’ for him.”

“Dirty Al couldn’t count his chips by himself,” Texas Jay added.

“No, sir, but he surely could make that old Big Fifty sing from half a mile away.”

“So Dirty Al shot a Sharps .50-70?”

“Yep. I wonder what happened to that rifle? Them bushwhackers took it, no doubt.”

“Where did you say Banner’s headquarters is?” Tap asked. “If I get to needin’ a job, I just might come up that way.”

“I didn’t say where his headquarters is, but we’re supposed to meet his crew at the corrals at Lone Tree Crick.”

“Maybe I’ll look you up.”

“And maybe we’ll be waitin’ for ya,” Texas Jay responded.

“Don’t mind him. He’s been cantankerous ever since he got kicked out of the Pearly Gates dance hall in Denver. You workin’ around here?”

“I manage to keep busy.”

“What kind of work you doin’?”

“Oh, you know, the same old thing.”

“Hirin’ out your gun and chasin’ them purdy ladies, are ya? That warden’s wife surely was sweet on ya.”

“Those days are over, Dutton. I’m a married man now.” Tap tried to brush some of the trail dust off his chaps.

Rather than spit, Snake leaned his head and let the t
obacco drool from the corner of his mouth. “No foolin’? I’d never take you for the settlin’-down type.”

“It fits me fine. Now if you boys will saunter back a tad, this big gray won’t stand when I mount up.”

They moved to the fire, and Tap swung up into the left stirrup. Long before he was able to pull his right leg over the cantle, Roundhouse bolted away from the springs and bucked his way out into the prairie. Two hundred yards later the big gray settled into a steady lope.

The afternoon turned out to be hotter, drier, and dustier than the previous one. By the time he reached the corrals su
rrounded by a dozen box elders at the Goodwin ranch, his leather-cased canteen was almost empty, his grey cotton shirt wrung wet with sweat. He soon identified the six maverick yearlings as Two Dot T, a trail brand of Tom Slaughter’s last drive up from Texas.

After a half-hour snooze under the trees, Tap cut the steers out of the corral and pushed them onto the prairie. He figured the steers would act snuffy at Roundhouse, but they took to the trail quickly, even without a bell cow. The big gray gelding considered the affair a game to be won and refused to let any of them wander even two feet off the trail.

When they made it back to the springs, Dutton and Texas Jay had pulled out. Tap had to picket Roundhouse fifty feet from the springs for the steers to get a drink. The big gray seemed determined to drive them all the way to Pine Bluffs without a stop.

By the time they reached Tom Slaughter’s corrals, Roun
dhouse was well lathered. Tap was caked with sweat and dust. Leaving the steers confined in the square pen and Roundhouse turned out to the horse pasture, Tap hiked past the barn and up the boardwalk to Slaughter’s office. Sweat drenched even his socks, and they rubbed his feet raw against his brown boots.

Two men in dark ties and starched-collar boiled shirts were tal
king to Slaughter when Tap stepped through the door.

“Sorry to bother you, Tom, but I corralled those six steers of yours that were at Goodwin’s. They were Two Dot T’s like you fi
gured. I’ll talk to you in the mornin’.”

“Wait a minute. I want you to meet these men.” Slaughter turned to the taller of the two well-dressed men. “This is Mr. Jacob Tracker and Mr. Wesley Cabe. Gentlemen, this is Tap A
ndrews, the brand inspector I was telling you about.”

Tap tipped his hat at the two men.

Tom Slaughter pointed to a map laid out on his desk. The gray-headed cattle baron swooped around the office like a cougar in a cage. “Tap, Mr. Tracker and his lawyer are out of San Angelo. They’re up here lookin’ to buy a place for some northern summer grazin’. What they had in mind was somethin’ in north Laramie County, up around Old Woman Crick. You heard about any places for sale up there?”

Tap pushed his hat back and rubbed his dirt-caked neck. “I haven’t been in the Territory all that long. And I don’t work north of the Platte very often. Afraid I can’t help you. Wouldn’t mind goin’ up that way someday though. I hear there might be some strays wa
nderin’ up on Lone Tree Crick.

"Sorry I don’t know any ranchers up there, but it’s my firm opi
nion that if you have the money, every ranch in this territory is for sale. Now if I can get cleaned up enough to have the wife let me in the door, I’ll go eat some supper.”

Impossible to imagine, but Tap figured it was even hotter than the previous evening. After they ate, they sprawled out on the porch and tried to think of cooler times.

“April’s was never this scorching in the summer.” Pepper fanned herself with her hands. “In fact, I remember some cool summer nights when we had to close the windows and pull up the quilts.”

“South Arizona is hot all year ’round. I can take that. It’s the cold that gets to me. Did I ever tell you about the time I spent most of one December in Bodie?” Tap asked.

“What were you doing in California?” Pepper asked.

“I was born in California, remember?”

“So was this before you went to Arizona?”

“I reckon it was about ten years ago. Ever’one was up there tryin’ to cut a big slice of gold for themselves. Housin’ was i
mpossible to find, so I was cabined up with two gamblers and a, eh,
nymph du prairie
.”

“A what?” Angelita popped straight up.

“Never mind, young lady,” Pepper asserted.

“Oh, one of those.” Angelita rolled her big, round brown eyes and plopped back down.

“Mr. Andrews, is this story going somewhere?”

“Here’s the thing. The wind and snow blow across the mountains at Bodie for six months at a time. It’s about 20
o
below on a good day. It’s killin’ country. Forty men died one winter ’cause there wasn’t any timber around for fires. Anyway, these two gamblers started up a game playin’ for firewood. You couldn’t buy a cord of wood for a hundred dollars, gold.”

Pepper pulled her curly blonde hair on top her head to cool her neck. “So you stayed warm by stoking the fire with profits from the poker game?”

“Most of the wood was probably taken from someone else’s woodpile, but the evidence was burned up before anyone could complain. One time they won ten big rounds of unsplit oak. I don’t know who in the world hauled that valley oak up the mountains, but there it was. So the gamblers decided I ought to go out into the freezing weather and split those rounds. They didn’t figure on getting calluses on their gamblin’ hands, and of course we didn’t want to send Posse out there.”

“Posse?” Pepper asked.

“Yeah, the Calico Queen—her name was ‘Posse’ LaFayette.”

“I can see why you certainly didn’t want to send her out into the cold,” Pepper sniped.

“Yeah. That oak was so tight that it took me ten hours to split ten rounds. I’d swing that splittin’ maul for one hour and sweat right through my clothes. Then they’d freeze solid ’til I was afraid of bustin’ ’em. So I’d go thaw out my britches by the fire, then go back outside. Kept that up all day. When we finally turned the lantern out at night, Posse stuck about five of those big pieces of oak in the potbellied stove.”

“She sounds quite considerate.”

“You’d like her, darlin’. She reminded me a lot of Selena.”

“If you remember, Selena and I didn’t get along at all.”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe I shouldn’t have started this story.”

“I’ll leave if you want me to,” Angelita offered.

“No, the story isn’t, eh, delicate.”

“Finish this wonderful tale, Mr. Andrews,” Pepper insisted. “Miss Posse was just stoking the fire, something she undoubtedly had pra
ctice doing.”