One Went to Denver and the Other Went Wrong (Code of the West) (6 page)

  It was after 3:00 A.M. when Tap finally returned to his hotel room. While none of the bartenders, card sharks, soiled doves, or hangers-on knew Rippler, almost all of them knew someone named Three Fingers.

  Three Fingers Blackie.

  Three Fingers Doc.

  Three Fingers Abraham.

  Three Fingers Dakota.

  Three Fingers Henry Hardisty.

  The way they talked, every other man in Denver had only three fingers.

  Look . . . it’s me, Tap Andrews. You know, it’s as if everything I do is a side trail away from the main road. I just want to marry Pepper and settle down. But along the way, I got to reconcile this thing in Arizona. Which led me to try and get Wade out of jail. Now I’ve got to find these men. You know, Lord, I’d sort of like to head back to the main trail pretty soon. If there’s somethin’ You’d like to do to help, it surely would be appreciated.

  He slid the brass bed away from the window and against the east wall. He checked the chambers of his Colt. Finding five beans in the wheel, he tossed the gun next to the pillow. Then he positioned the Winchester close by the bed on the floor, pointing at the doorway. Leaving his boots and ducking trousers also next to the bed, he turned the lantern off and crawled under the clean sheets in his long-handled underwear.

  A heavy rap on his door caused him to sit straight up and grab his .44 revolver. The noise continued as he fumbled his way out of the four-poster brass bed and stumbled across the unfamiliar dark hotel room. He pulled on his trousers as he hobbled.

  “Yeah?” Tap finally called.

  “You the fella lookin’ for a three-fingered man?”

  “Yep. Three Fingers Slim.”

  Tap scooted over to the wall on the left side of the doorway, his revolver in his right hand.

  “We’ve got a message for you.”

  We? How many are there?

  Tap fought back the sleep in his mind and tried to think clearly.

  “Go ahead. I’m listenin’.”

  “No. It’s a written note. Open the door. We’ve got orders to hand it to you personally.”

  “Orders from who?”

  “The boss. Now come on and open up. Then we can go back and report that you got the note.”

  You woke me up in the middle of the night to hand me a written note? You think I’ve been livin’ in a cave with the bears?

  His eyes adjusted to the dim light as he held the revolver straight in front of his face, the barrel pointed to the ceiling, the hammer cocked.

  “Slip it under the door.”

  “How do we know you’re really the man we’re lookin’ fer?”

  “Come back and see me in the mornin’. I’m goin’ back to bed.”

  “Wait. Here’s the note.”

  A white piece of paper got shoved under the door.

  Oh, sure, push it halfway under. Do they think I’m going to fall for this?

  Plucking a long boot hook off the dresser, Tap stretched it to nudge the note into the room. The second the note began to move, four rapid gunshots splintered the door and slammed into the floor. Tap crouched beside a dresser waiting for someone to burst through.

  Instead he heard boot heels crashing back down the hall. Tap fumbled with the key. The lock was jammed. It was his boot heel that opened the battered door. With some caution, he stepped into the darkened hall. He stalked down the stairs barefoot into the deserted lobby and out the front door.

  The cold night air slapped his face and sent shivers down his back. His toes began to cramp on the frigid sidewalk. Tap couldn’t tell which way the men had run. Returning to the lobby of the hotel, he met the night manager.

  “Mr. Andrews, was there shooting in your room?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did anyone get shot?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, thank heaven. You know, blood stains are so arduous to remove.”

  “I’ve never given it much thought.”

  “Mr. Andrews, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave the hotel.”

  “What?”

  “The discharge of firearms within the hotel is against our rules, and you will be required to seek other accommodations.”

  “Look, mister, I didn’t fire a weapon. Someone shot at me. You can kick those other old boys out of the hotel, providin’ you can run them down. And give me a room that doesn’t have the front door shot out.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand. I can’t just—”

  “Mister, I’m sleepy, freezin’, and too tired to talk to you. Give me a key for a fresh—”

  “I most certainly will not. You must think I can be intimidated by your .
 . .”

  Tap cocked the hammer on the Colt and pointed it up at the expensive cut-crystal chandelier hanging above the lobby.

  “No! Wait. You can have another room. But only until tomorrow.”

  Tap took the key from the trembling man’s hand.

  “And this time, don’t give my room number out to other people. I’d like to get a little sleep.”

  By the time he had moved his belongings to the new room, he could tell that morning was just about to break out on the eastern plains. He figured on sleeping a couple hours.

  He slept until almost noon.

  “Mr. Andrews,” a man called at the door.

  Tap quit tugging on his tall stovepipe black boots and reached for his Colt. “Yeah?”

  “This is the hotel manager. I presume you will want to check out now. I believe the night manager explained that to you.”

  Tap sat on the edge of the bed. “Let me get this straight. He gave out my name to men who tried to kill me, and I have to leave? Perhaps I should warn the other guests of your willful disregard for the health and safety of those who stay here.”

  There was silence at the door.

  “Eh . . . does this mean you’d like to stay another day?”

  “I just might stay a month,” Tap informed the man.

  “I’ll sign you in for tonight.”

  “Much obliged.”

  Within a few minutes, Tap was standing out on the wooden sidewalk in front of the Drovers’ Hotel, his rifle draped over his shoulder. He waited for several wagons to roll past, and then he crossed the street.

  He finished a large chop of fried rare beef at The Palomino and was staring at a hairline crack in the blue porcelain coffee cup he was holding when a short man with a long, dark gray wool topcoat stopped at his table.

  “Say, ain’t you the one looking for Three Fingers Slim?”

  Tap glanced the man over and answered, “Yeah.”

  “I work here at The Palomino. Last night I overhead you askin’ around. Yes, sir, when I ran across those boys, I sent them right over to your hotel.”

  Tap swallowed the last of the lukewarm, bitter coffee. “Who did you send over?”

  “Three Fingers Slim and that other fella. Yes, sir, I found them for you.”

  “You sent them to see me at four in the morning?”

  “I’m not sure what time it was. Did they find you all right?”

  “Yeah. They found me.”

  “Good. Good. I was hoping it would all work out. Say, would a favor like that be worth a couple dollars? I lost a little at the poker table after work and find myself short this mornin’. I heard you might be willin’ to pay for findin’ your friends.”

  “You want to get paid for sending those snakes to my hotel door?”

  “I certainly didn’t have to do it. It was only out of my generous nature that I sent them along. I just figured it would be worth something to you.”

  “I certainly want to give you what it’s worth,” Tap -muttered.

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  “But it’s illegal to discharge a firearm inside the cafe. So I guess I’ll just pistol-whip you.” Tap stood up rapidly with his Colt in his right hand.

  “You’ll do what?” the man gasped.

  “You sent two men to my room who pumped four bullets through the door tryin’ to kill me. Now tell me why I owe you some money.”

  “They tried to shoot you?” the man gasped. “But . . . but . . . I thought they were your associates. They claimed they were friends of yours.”

  “Friends? I don’t even know them—never seen them in my life. I still don’t know what they look like.” Tap held the gun on the man as some of the restaurant patrons moved back away from their tables.

  “You don’t mean they actually tried to kill you?”

  “That’s what I said. And I don’t know where to find them to pay back my respects.”

  “That won’t exactly be a problem. I just saw them ride out of town to the west toward the mountains on a mule and a roan not more than thirty minutes ago.”

  Tap pushed himself away from the table and retrieved his rifle that had been stashed by his chair.

  “Are you goin’ to go out to kill ’em?” the wide-eyed man queried.

  Tap left fifty cents on the table for the meal and started toward the door. “Shoot them? Shoot them?” He scowled. “Do I look like the kind of man who would provoke a gunfight?”

  “I didn’t mean nothin’. Don’t take no offense.” The man shifted from one foot to the next.

  “I don’t think I’ll shoot them. Maybe just hang them instead.”

  It took him less than twenty minutes to get to the livery, saddle Brownie, and make it to the main road leading west out of Denver. The days were getting short, and the bright, cold, yellow sun was halfway along its downward descent toward the front range of the Rocky Mountains. The blue sky looked as frigid as the wind felt.

  For seven miles he argued with himself.

  Andrews, you don’t know what these men look like; you don’t know for sure this is the road they took, and you don’t even know that man in the cafe was tellin’ you the truth. Maybe the whole thing’s just a stretcher to get you out of town. Maybe it’s a setup, and they’ll ambush you along the way. Or maybe that old boy doesn’t know a buffalo chip from a custard pie.

  He ran Brownie at a trot, trying to gain time, until he reached the Seven Mile Saloon. A mule and a roan were tied off to a leafless cottonwood tree by the back door. The hitching rail in front sported a dozen horses. He tied Brownie to the front rail and eased his way into the stuffy, smoky saloon.

  Card games flourished along the south wall. On the north was a fifty-foot-long polished oak bar with a huge mirror. A crude oil painting of Jenny Lind supervised the whole saloon. Both the card tables and the bar were packed.

  Stepping to the rear of the building, he huddled near the potbellied wood stove to warm his hands. Two gray-whiskered men sat on the floor with their backs to the wall near the stove, sound asleep.

  Three Fingers and Rippler are probably those two on the end of the bar. They look like they’re ready to bolt out the back door if anyone presses them.

  Tap had never seen the two before. He was hoping they didn’t recognize him either. He waited until he could confirm that the tall, thin one had only three fingers on his right hand. Then he walked over to the bar and scooted up next to the shorter of the two. He felt their gaze, but he could tell that they didn’t recognize him.

  “Say,” Tap began, “are you boys headin’ into Denver? I’m goin’ in, but I don’t know my way around much.”

  “Nope,” the short one answered downing a rye whiskey.

  “Do you know anything about Denver? I’m lookin’ for some men, and I don’t know where to find them.”

  “Who you lookin’ for?” the tall one asked.

  “The Lane brothers. You ever heard of them? One’s called Jim-One and the other Jim-Two. Say, you aren’t the Lane brothers . . . are you?”

  “Never heard of them,” the thin one answered. “Most folks call me Three Fingers Slim.”

  “I’m Jacob,” the taller one added. “And yourself?”

  Tap leaned forward and whispered, “Boys .
 . . I think it would be safer for you two if you didn’t know my name, comprende?”

  “Why? You got a reward on your head?”

  Tap glanced around the room full of men, each one looking trail-worn, each sporting a six-gun on the hip. Still whispering, Tap replied, “Let’s just say there are men in this room who would try to shoot me on sight if they heard my name.”

  Both men looked Tap up and down.

  “How do you know we won’t shoot you?” the one named Jacob asked.

  “’Cause you boys look a little smarter than the others. You don’t seem like the type that would draw cold on a man you never seen handle a revolver. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Ain’t never refused a free drink.” Slim shook his hand.

  The bartender set up two more rye whiskeys. Tap tossed him a coin but declined a drink himself.

  “Anyway,” Tap continued, “I need to find a couple of boys to throw in with me on a job down in Arizona. If you could tell me where those on the drift hang out in Denver, especially the shootin’ type, I’d be much obliged.”

  “What kind of job you got down there?” Three Fingers Slim asked.