One Went to Denver and the Other Went Wrong (Code of the West)

CODE OF THE WEST

W
ESTERN SERIES

BOOK TWO

ONE WENT TO DENVER AND THE OTHER WENT WRONG

Stephen Bly

T
HE
CODE OF THE WEST W
ESTERN
S
ERIES

It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own

One Went to Denver and the Other Went Wrong

Where the Deer and the Antelope Play

Stay Away from That City . . . They Call It Cheyenne

My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand

I'm Off to Montana for to Throw the Hoolihan

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One Went to Denver the Other Went Wrong

Copyright © 1994 by Stephen Bly

Published by

Dusty Trail Books

158 Laneda Avenue

Manzanita, Oregon  97130

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted

in any form by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise,

without the prior permission of the publisher,

except as provided by USA copyright law.

Cover illustration: Larry Selman

First printing 1995

Printed in the United States of America

Cover design by Stephen George

ISBN-13: 978-1492891871

ISBN-10: 1492891878

For

CARL AND CAROLYN

LIN AND JUDY

1

N
ovember, 1882, western Larimer County, Colorado. Sitting cross-legged on the raised wooden front porch, Tap Andrews surveyed the Triple Creek Ranch. Several dozen brass .44-40 casings piled next to him. With a routine built by years of practice, he scraped each one clean with the small blade of his folding knife and reset a new primer, using the heavy, plier-like reloading tool stamped WCF.

  His wide-brimmed, gray sweat-stained hat was pushed to the back of his head. The weathered, leathery wrinkles around his eyes perched above the stubble of a ten-day beard. His boots sported a collection of fall mud and manure.

  He glanced across the bare dirt yard. Brownie and Onespot huddled near the barn with their rumps turned to the cold northwest wind. The sulking, melancholy clouds that had circled the ranch all day, now crouched, anxious to abandon their frozen load.

  “Well, fellas,” Tap mumbled in the general direction of the two horses, “winter’s on its way. This could be that first snowstorm. That’s why we got to get some huntin’ in. I need meat hangin’ in that smokehouse. I surely don’t intend on eatin’ my own beef.”

  Somewhere back behind the house, 117 head of longhorn cattle stretched up the draw clean to the Wyoming line. Each packed a freshly burnt Triple Creek brand.

  He pushed his smoky-smelling hat back and listened. The trees didn’t rustle. The stream didn’t babble. The cows didn’t moan. The birds didn’t chirp. It was as if the whole world had stopped. But in the total silence he thought he heard something.

  Scooping the casings into a small cloth sack, he stood up, stretched his six-foot frame, and stepped back into the house. The large, musty front room was dark except for the small blaze of flames from the fireplace. Setting the casing sack on a huge, dust-covered grand piano in the middle of the room, he shuffled for the kitchen. His boot heels slammed the wooden floor and his spurs jingled.

  He tore off a wide chunk of sourdough bread and shoved open the back door. A gray and white fur ball flashed into the kitchen and flew toward the living room. “Well, ol’ Sal .
 . . it’s surely one of those evenin’s for a cat to curl up by the fire, isn’t it?”

  Sitting at the dining table, he began sliding loaded cartridges into the loops of his bullet belt. The room was almost too dark to see what he was doing, but it was the kind of job Tap Andrews could do in the dark .
 . . and often did. Finishing the last tough bite of dry sourdough crust, he stood up, brushed the crumbs to the floor, and fastened his holster to his hips. Walking to the front door, he pulled on his heavy brown canvas coat, buttoning only the top button. Then he picked up his Winchester ’73. Holding the barrel with his right hand, he draped the stock of the gun back over his shoulder and tugged down the front of his hat.

  “Hey, cat, I’m ridin’ up toward the state line to do a little huntin’ before it gets pitch dark, so you keep the fire goin’, ya hear?”

  Brownie seemed snuffy as Tap rode north. The horse kept prancing, snorting, pulling on the bit, and turning back toward the barn.

  “What are you all humped up about? You think Onespot ought to come and carry home the meat? You might be right. But, shoot, we aren’t goin’ that far. Now come on, boy, just settle down.”

  He leaned forward in the saddle to stroke the nervous horse’s neck. A blast from the trees east of the corrals sent a bullet sailing over his right shoulder. The brown horse reared on its hind legs. Tap tried a desperate maneuver to stay in the saddle and jerked his rifle from the scabbard at the same time.

  He lost his grip on the saddle horn. The reins slipped through his fingers. He tumbled over the cantle and hit the ground on his right shoulder. The horse’s panicked kick caught him in the stomach under his left rib cage. Two more shots scattered dust near his head as the horse bolted back toward the barn.

  He gasped to regain his breath and attempted to raise himself to his knees. But the pain in his shoulder and his stomach stunned him for a minute. He couldn’t move.

  Then he heard someone shout, “Leave the gun in the holster, and jist maybe we won’t shoot ya, mister.”

  With the wind knocked out of him and pain throbbing in his body, Tap rolled to his back. He lifted himself to his elbows but didn’t yank his revolver.

  “We’re comin’ in. You pull that gun, and you’re a dead man .
 . . you understand?” the voice added.

  “I kin shoot the eyes out of a squirrel at five hundred yards, mister, so don’t go tryin’ nothin’,” another voice whined.

  Oh, brother . . . there must not be anything but blind squirrels left in Missouri. Every yeehaw with a Springfield claims to shoot squirrels’ eyes.

  Tap pushed himself up to a sitting position and fought to catch his breath. Finally, he shouted, “Boys, you’re makin’ a serious mistake. Now it isn’t too late to back away. I haven’t had to shoot none of you yet.”

  “We ain’t afeared of no gunslinger. We got you from three angles.”

  You got me from one angle—the trees. But I’m not sure if my sore right shoulder can lift a gun. Lord, why do things like this keep on happenin’ to me?

  Three men rode out of the ponderosa pines behind the corrals, all pointing guns at him. Two sported carbines and the other a revolver. He could hear the creak of old leather and the hoofbeats of the horses. The cold weather kept the mud where he lay stiff enough not to cling to his hands.

  “Toss that Colt, and you can stand up, mister,” a gravelly voice shouted.

  Tap grabbed his hat, shoving it back on his head. “I just got that Colt cleaned and oiled. I really don’t want to throw it in the dirt.” He pulled up the slide on his charcoal gray horsehair stampede string.

  “Throw it down. Now!” The voice sounded anxious, high-pitched, taut.

  Tap slowly pulled out his revolver and flung it into some tall, brown grass about ten feet away. Then he struggled to his feet.

  “You know, boys,” Tap drawled, “the years must be seasonin’ me. Why, I swear, in the old days I would have just shot you dead and then asked about you later on. But now look at me. I’d sort of like to hear your story first. Then I’ll shoot you dead.”

  “You ain’t shootin’ nobody today, gunslinger. You’re dealin’ with the Lane brothers from Bolivar, Missouri.”

  The three riders moved their horses closer. Rubbing his throbbing left shoulder, he shifted his weight to his right foot and studied them as they approached.

  Whoever heard of the Lane brothers? They’re the type that believe everything they read in a dime novel. But they’ll run. First shot fired, and every one of them will run. ’Course, it’s tough to shoot when your rifle trotted back to the barn and your Colt’s down in the dirt. At least they’re predictable. They’ll try to circle me.

  “It ain’t him, Jim-Two. I told you it weren’t him.”

  The man in the middle riding a long-legged roan spat tobacco to the ground but kept his carbine on Tap.

  “It’s sure that he’s somebody, Jim-One. And if he’s wanted by the law, there’s got to be a ree-ward.”

  The man rode up to Tap, and the other two cut behind him to form a rough triangle.

  “Who are you, mister?”

  Tap tried to conceal his labored breathing. “Boys, I can’t help but feel sorry for ya. The last ones who tried to ambush me in my own place are all planted beneath a mound of Colorado dirt over at Pingree Hill. Except for Beckett, of course. I just buried him out there behind the corral with the horses.”

  “Beckett? You’re the one who brought down Jordan Beckett?” The man called Jim-One gulped.

  “Yep.”

  He’s the one. He’ll panic.

  “I asked your name.”

  “Relax, Jim-Two. I told ya he ain’t Barranca.”

  “Shut up, Dusty. I know he ain’t that Mexican. Mister, I’ll ask you one last time—what’s your name?”

  “You’re lookin’ for Victor Barranca? Don’t tell me you three are bounty hunters.” Tap fought back the pain in his shoulder and tried to crack a smile.

  “I told you we was the Lane brothers. That ought to speak fer itself. Do you know Barranca?”

  “That lyin’, stinkin’, cheatin’ horse thief? I chased him halfway to Dodge City.” Tap scooted back a few inches.

  This ought to work, providin’ they don’t move sudden-like.

  “You ain’t goin’ to tell us your name?”

  “Thanks to you three, my shoulder got thrown out, I got kicked by a horse, and I have three guns pointed at me. Now why on earth should I tell you anything?”

  “’Cause we jist might put a bullet in your brain—that’s why,” sneered the one riding a sorrel with three white socks.

  Jim-Two spat out another chew of tobacco but kept his carbine pointed at Tap. “Don’t matter who he is. We’ll take him to Denver and see what the U. S. Marshal will give fer him.”

  Dusty lowered his revolver and glanced at the spokesman. “Jim-Two, we ain’t headin’ back to Denver tonight, are we? This old boy is bound to have some supper in the cabin down there.”

  Jim-One glanced up at the threatening clouds. “Sure, we could hogtie him to a post and get us a little shut-eye.”

  “Start walkin’ toward the house, mister,” Jim-Two ordered.

  “I don’t think I can make it,” Tap protested. “I got kicked pretty good.”

  “You ain’t got no choice.” Jim-One shoved him with his carbine barrel.

  Tap staggered forward and then dove between the legs of the startled sorrel horse, rolled to the tall grass, and grabbed his Colt .44. Dusty fired the revolver. The sorrel bolted with a panicked gallop toward the woods. Jim-One barely held on.

  At the same time Jim-Two’s horse began frenzied bucking. He dropped the carbine and clutched the saddle horn with both hands. Dusty tumbled off his horse as it reared in the confusion. He squeezed off two more shots as he slammed to the ground, but the bullets tore into the dirt.

  Tap scrambled across the clearing to the downed man. Grabbing Dusty’s thick, greasy brown hair, he jammed the blue steel barrel of the Colt into the man’s ear. The man reeked of stale beer, campfire smoke, and four months without a bath.

  “Dusty, don’t think about movin’ an eyelid.” The man’s head quivered and Tap noticed sweat bloom on his forehead.

  “Don’t shoot me, mister,” the man pleaded. “Please, it was their idee. I swear. I told them to go up and make sure it was Barranca.”

  Tap let the man prattle on but didn’t loosen his grip. The shouts and curses from across the clearing caused both of them to glance at the bucking horse. Two-Jim’s saddle had slipped to the right side.

  He clutched the horse’s mane and was slung twenty feet into some rocks as the horse veered right. Stunned, Two-Jim staggered to his feet, took two steps, and dropped face-first in the dirt. He didn’t move.

  There was a scream from the woods as One-Jim’s horse plowed into the branches, knocking his hapless rider headfirst to the ground.

  Tap quizzed Dusty. “You boys definitely need calmer horses if you intend to stay in this line of work. ’Course, it’s a little late for that. You won’t need a horse where you’re goin’ now. What made you think that Barranca was out here?”

  “Two-Jim, It was his idee. He heard from some dance-hall girl over in Pingree Hill that a dark-skinned gunman on the run had moved in at the Triple Creek Ranch. We figured it was Barranca. Everybody in Durango is lookin’ for him. They posted a $1,000 reward to bring him in alive. Don’t shoot me, mister. I'm unarmed. I swear, I’ll get on my horse and ride out of here and never come back. Please, mister.”

  “Stop whining, Dusty. I can’t stand a man who snivels. You pulled the gun on me. Now you got to face the music. That’s the way the game’s played. You knew the rules before you came out here lookin’ for trouble.”

  “What rules? There ain’t no rules out here.”

  “There’s the code,” Tap insisted.

  “What code?”

  “The code that honorable men live by. But I can understand why you’ve never heard of it.”

  “We’re from Missouri. We don’t know nothin’.”

  “Here’s one part: never pull up a chair to the table until you know the house rules. Out here if you shoot at a man, he’s got the right to shoot back.”

  “But wait. Ain’t there nothin’ in that there code about mercy?”

  Tap looked at the fear in the man’s eyes.

  Lord, they come west thinkin’ they’re playin’ a game. Dime-novel desperadoes.

  Tap sighed, releasing the man. "Get out of here.”

  “What?”

  “Go back to Missouri and shoot squirrels’ eyes. Leave the guns on the ground. Get those Jims up off the dirt, catch your saddles, and ride out of here. Every man gets one lucky day in his life. You three used yours up today.”

  “You ain’t goin’ to plug me in the back, are ya?”

  The scowl on Tap’s face caused the man to scamper to his feet and trot over to Jim-Two. After a mumbled conversation, the two men hobbled toward the distant trees and their fallen cohort.