One Went to Denver and the Other Went Wrong (Code of the West) (16 page)

  “Yeah. He’ll do all right—until Vic shows up. I’m leavin’ right now, Tap. I can’t stay here.”

  “Yeah, I figured that. But there won’t be any stages or trains pulling out until mornin’.”

  “I’d rather take my chance at the train station than sit here and wait for Vic to return.”

  “You can’t wait there. It wouldn’t be safe for any woman. Have you got a friend you could stay with?”

  “In Denver? I wouldn’t call any of them friends, except for you.”

  Tap looked Rena straight in the eyes. “So why not stay in my room over at the Drovers’?”

  “Are you invitin’ me to your room, Tap Andrews? My, oh my, what is that spicy girlfriend of yours goin’ to say?”

  “I’ll find somewhere else to bunk. And the good Lord willin’, Pepper won’t know anything about it. You need to pack some things, I presume?”

  “Yes, but much fewer than you would imagine. I won’t miss these dresses a bit. Grab me a valise out of the closet, would you? I got to find some other way to make a living than this.”

  Tap searched the closet and carried out a small black leather bag. “You could always take in laundry.”

  A silk fringed pillow sailed across the room toward his head. “Laundry? I was thinking of opening a theater. Oh, that’s Vic’s bag. I need the bigger one.”

  Tap dropped the bag and turned back to the closet. “I thought you were travelin’ light.”

  “The big bag is travelin’ light.”

  Tap tossed a large leather case on the bed. He stood near the south wall so he could watch Rena and the door to the room at the same time. As she folded and packed, Tap glanced down at Victor Barranca’s leather suitcase.

  “You think there’s any chance Victor will be coming back here tonight?”

  “I don’t think so. But he will be back .
 . . or at least send Sarah back for some of his things.”

  “What belongs to him?”

  “That valise, for one thing. He calls it his ‘possibles sack,’ but I have no idea what’s in it.”

  “Maybe it’s time we looked.” Tap picked up the leather bag.

  “It’s locked and I don’t have the key.”

  Tap slipped a knife with a six-inch blade out of his right boot and sliced a long hole in the side of the case. He dumped the contents on the bed.

  “What are you lookin’ for? A written confession?”

  “Yeah, that would be nice.”

  Rena buzzed through the room stuffing a few more items in the large suitcase. “What did you find?”

  “Marked cards, loaded dice, trinkets, bullets, a little pearl-handled, two-shot sneak gun, and a few letters .
 . . a Texas Ranger badge. Was Victor in the Rangers?”

  “He stole it, no doubt. I think he was on the run from the Rangers when I met him in Mexico.” She stepped to the bed. “A pearl-handled sneak gun? I don’t remember seeing that.”

  “It looks a mite fancy for a man like Victor.”

  “I think I’ll take that for my own. It’s much less awkward than my .44.”

  Tap started to hand the gun to her, then walked over to the lantern.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It’s engraved. ‘For Col. C. Billingsly on his 50th birthday, Leland Stanford.’”

  “It belonged to Billingsly?”

  “Rena, this is it. It’s the hard evidence the governor is looking for.”

  She picked up the small bundle of letters and sorted through them.

  “Anything there?” he asked.

  “Mainly clippings from newspapers.”

  “About what?”

  “About the great outlaw, Victor Barranca,” she answered. “And a dispatch from a Cheyenne bank.”

  “Victor has money in a bank?”

  “As of the first of November when one thousand dollars was deposited in his name. How come he never told me about this? Wait .
 . . He didn’t go to Cheyenne. He came in drunk about daylight and slept all day. I remember because we had a big party the night before, and he took off sayin’ he wasn’t about to wear a -costume.”

  Tap glanced over at Rena. “When was Billingsly killed?”

  “The last of October, that same day. The 31st, I believe.”

  “The next day after the shooting, a one thousand dollar bank account shows up.”

  “From the person who hired him?”

  “Looks like it. But that’s for the law to decide. We’ll definitely take it to the governor.”

  By the time Tap had carried the valise down the stairs and Rena offered her goodbyes, the Pearly Gate was just about empty. One card table still operated at the back of the room where five red-eyed men hovered between rags or riches. Two girls with emotionless stares still worked at the long mahogany bar.

  One patron leaving in a small one-horse rig agreed to drop them off at the Drovers’ Hotel. Hefting her suitcase to his second-floor room, Tap unlocked the door and lit a lantern.

  “I’ll get my bedroll and things.”

  “You know you don’t have to go.”

  “And you know I do. First thing in the mornin’ I’ll take this sneak gun and bank letter over to the governor. Do you know what time the westbound train leaves?”

  “I’ll be goin’ east,” Rena informed him.

  “East? I thought—”

  “I’ve been thinking. Barranca will never go east. I’ll head to Omaha. That train leaves at noon. I’ve got relatives in Delaware.”

  “Delaware? I’ll get you to the train.”

  “I could make it myself, thank you, but I would appreciate the help. Just in case Vic’s around town.”

  “I figure Victor’s on his way to Cheyenne with Sarah to collect that money.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s a letter of account. He would have to have that sheet of paper to collect the funds.”

  “So he’ll be comin’ back to the Pearly Gate?”

  “And after that, comin’ after me.”

  “Keep the door locked. Don’t get yourself hurt.”

  “Thanks, Tap. It’s been awhile since I had anyone care much about me.” She sidled up to Tap. He still carried his bedroll and held his Winchester ’73. Rena touched his cheek and pulled his head closer.

  Tap jerked back. “Don’t you go layin’ that charm on me. I’ve made my decisions for the future, and I’m stickin’ with ’em.”

  “Someday, Mr. Andrews, I’m goin’ to meet that Miss Pepper and see what it is that so captivates you.”

  “Maybe so.” He opened the door. “Lock this behind me, and I’ll be back in time to get you to the train. Maybe you can get some sleep.”

  “Sleep? You show up, and in less than twenty-four hours you completely rearrange my entire life. Now you want me to sleep?”

  “At least you’re not bored.”

  “Since I met you in Globe City, there hasn’t been one nice, peaceful boring day in my life.”

  He left Rena standing in the doorway.

  Lord, when I was in prison in Yuma, I used to think about gettin’ out and findin’ Rena. I was goin’ to make her pay for runnin’ out on me. But findin’ her in the Pearly Gate .
 . . that’s an awful place. She has been payin’ for it. You do what’s fair by her, and please keep me out of Arizona.

  He entered the stable where he had boarded Brownie and changed to regular clothes. He gave the suit to a blurry-eyed stable hand in exchange for sleeping in the loft. The air inside the barn was cold, and his bedroll felt like home. He closed his eyes and wished he could wake up at the ranch.

  Tap wasn’t sure why his eyes blinked open. It was already daylight, and the hairs on the back of his neck tingled with a strange anxious feeling. He had felt that way before. Grabbing his Colt and his Winchester, he leaped out of the bedroll and threw himself against the back wall of the loft.

  The first bullet blasted through the boards from the stables below and punctured the lower end of his bedroll. The horses whinnied and danced in their stalls. His ears recorded each blast that shattered the hayloft floor and danced his bedroll like a tin can target.

  Ten shots. Two men with revolvers. One by the door, the other straight underneath. Barranca? No, Victor would have come right up here after me.

  Deciding against the noise of cocking the Winchester, Tap pulled the hammer back slowly on the Colt and aimed for the top of the loft ladder.

  “Did you get him, Benny?”

  “Shoot, ain’t nobody could live through that. Every shot ripped right through that dad-gum bedroll.”

  “Go pull him down.”

  “Fat Larry, you’re closer to the ladder.”

  “What if he ain’t dead?”

  “Shoot him. Barranca don’t care if he’s dead or alive.”

  So Barranca had found him.

  “What if it ain’t him, Benny? We don’t even know what this guy Anderson looks like.”

  “His name is Andrews. The boy said the suit belonged to Andrews.”

  Boy? The stable boy. But how did they know I was here? Rena. Only Rena knew I’d be here.

  Tap glanced around and spotted a second ladder to the loft running from the rear of the building.

  “Go ahead up that ladder,” the one near the barn door called.

  There was no reply.

  He’s sneakin’ up the back way. I can’t make any movement, or they’ll make a sieve out of this floor.

  Tap turned his Colt .44 toward the ladder up the back wall of the barn, the blued-steel sight planted at the head of the case-hardened valley.

  If he comes up that center ladder, he’ll get the first shot off. But if he comes up the back .
 . .

  The livery grew still. Even the horses seemed to hold their breaths. The crown of a dirty black felt hat crept into Tap’s sights. Then the whole hat. A forehead. Dark, bushy eyebrows. Finally two narrow-set eyes glanced at the bedroll, then pierced through Tap crouched against the wall.

  “I’ll be a—” The man swung his revolver around.

  Tap’s bullet slammed into him. He plunged off the ladder and crashed to the floor below.

  Tap rolled across the hay to the front end of the loft and came up with gun cocked and pointed where he had last heard the first man.

  All he saw was a man running down the street away from the livery. He waited several minutes, then crawled down the ladder, still carrying his cocked .44.

  The downed gunman was dead.

  Tap found the stable boy cold-cocked on the dirt in front of the stable, wearing the suit he had traded for. A few splashes of water brought him around.

  “My head hurts.”

  “Yep. I imagine it does. Who were those two that hit you?”

  “I ain’t never seen them.”

  “How did they know I was up there in the loft?”

  “I told them.”

  “What?”

  “They was ridin’ by early while I was hitching the Burnside rig, and these two ask where I got the suit with the gold-braided vest. I told them I traded a man for it, and they asked where that man might be, and I pointed to the loft. The next thing I know, you was splashing water on my face. Are they friends of yours?”

  “Nope. Sorry, son. Listen, me and Brownie are leavin’ now. As soon as I’m gone, send for the marshal.”

  “Why?”

  “He’ll know what to do about that dead body in the barn.”

  “You killed one?”

  “Yep.”

  “But I didn’t even get to see the shootout. What do I tell the marshal?”

  “Tell him exactly what happened.”

  “What did happen?”

  “Two gunmen bushwhacked you, and then they tried to gun me down. I shot back. I have no idea who they are either.”

  Quickly saddling Brownie, Tap gathered his gear and rode through the nearly empty streets of Denver toward the governor’s office. Though the early morning air was cold, he kept his coat unbuttoned and rode with his right hand resting on the handle of his Colt .44.

  Barranca’s out here somewhere, he and any drifters he can enlist. The quicker I get out of Denver, the better. Pepper’s right. Some towns are to be avoided. If we need supplies, we’ll just roll the wagon up to Laramie. No more Denver.

  Since the governor’s office didn’t open until 8:00 A.M., Tap reined up at a tiny cafe called the Rio Grande. Tying off Brownie in front of the restaurant’s only window, he carried his rifle and selected a table in the back of the room where he could watch the front.

  A man with a dirty apron walked over. “What’ll it be, partner?”

  “I’ll take the biscuits, sausage and gravy, plenty of black coffee . . . and a clean piece of paper and a pencil,” Tap replied.

  “What was that?”

  “You got a pencil and piece of paper in this place?”

  “You writin’ a dime novel, or will a scrap of wrapping paper do?”

  “That’ll be great. Thanks.”

  The steam rising from the hot gravy warmed Tap’s face. Holding the blue-enameled tin coffee cup in his left hand, he began to write with his other.