My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand (Code of the West) (15 page)

“Shoot the horse,” Odessa shouted.

Tap reached for his rifle in the scabbard, but the sudden movement caused Roundhouse to bolt straight down the main street of town at a gallop. Unable to stop the horse, Tap sprinted him around to the north and circled him behind the buildings, racing him back to the corrals. By the time he arrived, Odessa’s horse was up and circling back toward the barn. Lorenzo was brushing layers of dirt off his shirt, his britches, his hat, and his sandy-blond hair.

The liveryman sat on the top rail of the corral and roared. “Them rich people down there in Cheyenne City will pay good money to see you boys put on a show like that.”

“Why didn’t you shoot him?” Odessa yelled out.

“My horse was buckin’, too. I surmised that I might shoot you by mistake.”

“Either way would’ve worked. Now would you get that horse of yours out of here so I can get mounted?”

Tap rode Roundhouse down the street about fifty yards from the corral. He watched at a distance as Odessa climbed back into the saddle. This time the blue roan tore off on a ga
llop in the opposite direction.

That’s the wrong way, Lorenzo. You’ll be in Deadwood before I can get you spun around.

They detoured him within a quarter of a mile. Then Tap and Lorenzo rode south across the rolling prairie and into another hot, breezeless day.

Near sunset they reached the pass just above the top of Black Thunder Basin. Tap rode straight for the tiny clump of cedars.

“I didn’t figure they’d ride on yet. I pictured them sittin’ right here and waitin’ for the herd to arrive.”

“Maybe they’re camping on down the creek somewhere,” Lorenzo guessed.

“That could be.”

“Shoot,” Tap shouted. “The whole reason for this charade was to get the brand inspector out of the country when they moved that herd through from Texas. Send me north. Then send me back on the Deadwood/Cheyenne road and have me wait at Pine Bluffs. They got me clear out of the picture wit
hout havin’ to shoot me. I can’t believe I could be so gullible.”

Odessa rode his horse in between the scrub cedars.

“The whole thing is just a plot by Tracker to get me away from the stolen cattle. He ain’t buyin’ anything but just parkin’ ’em up here and peddlin’ them off. He wasn’t even plannin’ on me runnin’ the spread.”

“Something must have gone wrong with the plan.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because,” Odessa pointed to the ground behind the c
edar trees, “Jake Tracker is laying over here stone-dead.”

7

L
ooks like he got a couple of bullets in the back,” Odessa shouted.
................................................................................
Tap slipped off Roundhouse and led the horse to the cedars. The soft red dirt dusted his black boots as he dug in his heels and climbed the knoll. He handed the reins up to Odessa and squatted to examine Tracker’s body.

“The blood’s dried and cracked .
 . . the body’s stiff.” Tap rolled him over and shut his eyelids. “He’s been dead awhile. His poke’s gone, but his gun’s still in the holster. Don’t know many bushwhackers who wouldn’t lift a man’s pistol.”

“It sure wasn’t Indians,” Odessa added.

“Nope. Wind has blown most of the tracks away. You don’t see another body, do you?”

“Cabe?”

“Yeah. Circle around and see if you can spot anything. Maybe somebody jumped ’em. The Platte River Boys at Shaver’s Crossin’ were gunslingin’ mad when we left ’em. Maybe they trailed us up here after all.”

Tap pushed his hat back and inspected the ground. “If Cabe’s not dead, then he’s a prime suspect. I don’t see any wagon around either.”

After a quick, futile search, both men returned to the cedars.

“What I know of Wes Cabe,” Odessa offered, “he’d sure e
nough shoot someone in the back just to lift a poke. But I’d have thought they’d try to plant you back down in one of these little canyons.”

“No need to shoot the brand inspector if you can sucker him into bein’ on your side.”

“But if the two of them were in cahoots, why shoot it out? They hadn’t got to the big money yet,” Odessa pondered.

“Maybe Cabe didn’t like his percentage. Anyway, he has some e
xplainin’ to do. If he’s alive, I can’t figure any good reason he left Tracker lyin’ here.”

“Tap, what are we going to do with this old boy?”

“Bury him in a shallow grave, I reckon.”

With dirty cotton sleeves rolled up, Tap and Odessa scooped out some of the soft dirt in the midst of the cedars with the butts of their rifles and rolled Tracker into it. While Odessa covered the body, Tap hefted a few boulders to mark the spot.

Lord, have mercy on his soul. I’m buryin’ men I don’t even know. I was mad enough to shoot him myself last night, but seein’ him lyin’ here . . . there’s more to life than stolen cattle, makin’ money, and firin’ a .45 at a man’s back. I don’t aim to end my life layin’ dead in the cedars.

Tap and Odessa made camp at the bend in the creek. It was a clear, warm night, but toward morning a few clouds streaked ove
rhead. Tap smelled sulphur in the air. By daylight it was clear again, but the air was humid and sticky.

It’s a shallow-breathin’, slow-movin’ day. If we were home, I’d go down to the ice house and see if there were any chunks left hidin’ in the straw.

Roundhouse made only a minimum protest at being mounted. Odessa’s horse turned around and bit at Lorenzo’s ear but only managed to take a small chunk out of his hat. In response Odessa cracked a two-inch piece of firewood across the horse’s nose. To both men’s relief, the blue roan caught a temporary case of good manners and stood perfectly still.

After a couple of circles around the grove of squat cedars, Tap and Odessa picked up the buckboard tracks leading sout
heast down Black Thunder Creek. For most of the way, they followed the exact route the buckboard had taken two days earlier.

“Where’s Cabe goin’?” Odessa asked.

“Looks like he’s headed back to Running Water.”

“Don’t make sense, does it? If he and Tracker got into a scrap over them rustled cattle, why not wait here and a
ssume control of the herd?”

Tap and Odessa kept their horses at a fast walk side by side as they rode down out of the basin. “Cabe wasn’t a ca
ttleman. He couldn’t tell a heifer from a steer. Maybe he was satisfied with the poke. But that type usually is consumed with greed. Chances are he’s cookin’ up some plan to get more for himself.”

“You think Tracker really was carryin’ a lot of money?”

Tap sat straight up and broke Roundhouse into a trot by signaling the horse with his knees. “I reckon he had the funds to pay off the cowhands bringing up the herd.”

“If Wes Cabe just wanted the poke, he could have shot Tracker in Colorado and saved time.”

“Cabe didn’t seem smart enough to do much more than cheat at three-card monte, but I’ve never been able to think like a man who shoots someone in the back. Maybe there’s a few answers waitin’ for us up the trail.”

It was near sunset when they crested the pass and looked down on the stone barn at Running Water. Tap’s bandanna slouched like a wet red rag about his neck. His shirt was soaked with sweat. His vest was rolled up and tied to his ca
ntle. The dirt had turned to mud in the folds of his neck.

“There’s a few wagons down there, Tap. You recognize any of them?”

Running Water looked more like a stage stop than a settlement. “Not yet.” Tap spurred Roundhouse into the lead. He pulled his Winchester from the scabbard, checked the lever, and then laid it across his lap.

“How we goin’ to play this, Tap?”

Tap gazed over at the leathery, chiseled face of Lorenzo Odessa. “You remember how we used to do ever’ time we went into a new little Mexican pueblo?”

“You mean, I come in five minutes behind you and bail you out?” It was a deep laugh .
 . . one built on years of shared adventures.

“Bail me out? You’d always run off with some señorita, and I didn’t see you for days.”

“That didn’t happen more than . . . half a dozen times, did it?”

Ignoring Odessa, Tap tugged his hat down tight on his head as they rode through a dust devil and then pushed it back up when the wind died down. “That far buckboard looks like Cabe’s. He must not be expectin’ company, since he’s corralled the horses. That cafe has a back door. It’s all supper tables e
xcept for a poker game right inside the back. You come through that way. I don’t think Cabe will make a play unless he can shoot you in the back. Let’s flush him outside and see what he has to say. We just might have to turn him in at Ft. Laramie.”

“He might have friends in there.”

“He sure acted like a stranger the first time we came through. But I’ve surely been wrong a lot lately,” Tap admitted. “Might be some folks in there that know me, but none of ’em know you, Odessa. I’ll concentrate on Cabe. You watch for his friends.”

“It’s just like old times, Tapadera.”

“It hasn’t been that long ago, has it?”

“You got to be old to have old times. I keep tellin’ you, we’re old.” Lorenzo laughed. “I’ll back your play to my last bullet, par
tner.”

Odessa swung off the trail to the west and circled around the co
rrals.

Lord, a man don’t get too many friends like that. Old times? We’re older, all right. Wiser, I suspect. Being foo
lhardy is a young man’s game. I truly ask that we both live long enough to be really old, old friends.

Tap trotted Roundhouse up the road. His back was straight. Face expressionless. Eyes focused. Winchester propped across his saddle. At a distance, it was hard to tell if his dark comple
xion revealed an inheritance from his mother or the results of six months in the sun or merely dirt.

That’s Tracker’s buckboard. Lord, there’s somethin’ that troubles me. If all Lorenzo said about Tracker is true, then I’m not sure that he didn’t deserve what he got. Maybe this is all just Your justice, and I should let it drop.

He pulled up next to a crowded hitching rail.

Who am I kiddin’? I want him to make a play. They strung me along and got me away from my job, and I want to get even.

Lord, I’ve been thinkin’ that way too long. I want justice—that’s all. But You’ve got to help me remember that.

Tap tied Roundhouse to the right side of the hitching rail. He n
oticed two men standing at the far end of the cafe’s front porch. They seemed content to gaze out into the darkening road. He stared for a moment at the backs of their heads.

You boys are waitin’ for somethin’. But it can’t be me, can it? You didn’t know I was comin’ this way. I didn’t know I was comin’ back this way. Have I seen you before?

Tap fidgeted with his saddlebags, trying to get a clearer glimpse of their faces. He started to pull his rifle and then shoved it back into the scabbard.

Platte River Boys? They shaved up and changed clothes. Are they followin’ me or just a lucky coincidence? They didn’t seem like the type to make a stand at a public cafe. Maybe the rest of ’em are inside. I’m just lookin’ for Cabe, and I might have unco
vered the whole rat’s nest. Nothin’s ever as simple as you plan.

Tap pulled five brass cartridges from his bullet belt and dropped them into the right pocket of his brown leather vest. There were two steps to the top of the boardwalk and both jolted his tender left knee. He eyes squinted at the burst of pain. The two men at the other end of the porch faced the o
pposite direction.

Okay, Lord, I’m walkin’ into a trap. But they don’t know that I know that I’m walkin’ into a trap. That gives me the odds. I think.

Tap hiked straight toward the front door of the cafe. He heard the boots and spurs of the two men easing in behind him. He spun on his heels, pulled his .44, and cocked it as he lifted it toward the head of the man on his right. His left hand gripped the wrist of the other man and kept him from drawing his pistol.

Both hesitated, hands resting on holstered revolvers.

“You boys aren’t followin’ me, are you?” Tap growled.

“No, sir,” the younger of the two replied, his head only inches away from the barrel of Tap’s cocked Colt.

“We was jist goin’ to have us some supper,” the other mumbled.

“That’s good.” Tap stepped back from the door and r
eleased the man’s wrist. “Why don’t you go in first? You boys are probably a lot hungrier than I am.”

“No, sir, you go right ahead.”

“You two first. If someone’s goin’ to get shot in the back, I don’t aim on it bein’ me. I’ve been thinkin’, if I was to pull the trigger on this .44, would the bullet go clear through your skull and hit your buddy right behind the ear, or would I have to shoot him separate? What do you think?”

“I think we ain’t hungry anymore.”

“No, sir, we ain’t. I reckon we’ll just ride on out of here. Come on, Utah.”