Stay Away From That City . . . They Call It Cheyenne (Code of the West) (12 page)

If there was anyone in Cheyenne besides Baltimore Gomez who didn’t attend Pappy Divide’s funeral, Tap couldn’t tell it. Wrapped in topcoats, cloaks, and assorted wool blankets, the city gathered under heavy, gray clouds to hear Rev. H. H. Dixon shout the service. A cannon brought in from Ft. Russell sounded the farewell tribute. After a few words with Pepper and Savannah, Tap led Pappy’s buckskin saddle horse back to the I-X-L Livery. Willie Templeton met him at the barn to collect the animals.

“Shore do seem strange not to have Pappy ridin’ ol’ Pa
ncake, don’t it?”

“Yep. This town will miss him.”

“I don’t figure how he got it,” Willie continued. “He’s the one man in town who seemed to get along with ever’one.”

“All it takes is one blurry-eyed drunk. It could have been any of us.”

“Yes, sir, Deputy. You’re right about that. We’re all livin’ on borrowed time, so to speak. It’ll take a good spell to find someone who can take Pappy’s place.”

“Willie, Pepper and I will be goin’ out to the Fort tomorrow evening. You got a buggy we can rent?”

“You invited to that Calico Hop?”

“That’s what I hear.”

“I reckon I didn’t figure you for the dancin’ type. You want a standard or deluxe carriage?”

Tap pulled his rifle out of his scabbard and walked to the barn door. “I want the cheap one, Willie.”

Later that evening he sat at the kitchen table cleaning his guns by the flickering light of a poorly trimmed lantern.

I can’t believe I told Pepper to spend another night with S
avannah. We’ve only been married three months, but a man sure does get used to having a woman at home every night. Lord, the whole thing sort of snuck up on me. I figured for years that I just wasn’t the religious type. Then . . . all of a sudden there You were staring me down out of the pages of Hatcher’s Bible.

And I just knew I wasn’t the marrying kind. But Pepper comes along, and I can’t imagine not bein’ married. Seems like You’ve been makin’ a habit out of provin’ me wrong, which is okay by me.

Holding a piece of white paper inside the receiver of the ’73 Winchester to reflect the lantern’s light, Tap looked down the barrel of the rifle.
Good, clean bore.
He tucked the cleaning tools back in the oily leather sack, pumped ten shells into the rifle, and set it by the front door.

Then he loaded his .44 Colt with five rounds and carried it and the lantern to the bedroom. He stripped down to his long johns and slipped underneath the covers. He reached over to the right side of the bed and laid his hand across Pepper’s lilac-smelling pillow.

I just can’t believe I let her stay at Savannah’s.

Aimee “Pepper” Paige Andrews stood robe-wrapped and kept an empty gaze out the front window of Suite G at the Inter Ocean Hotel. Cheyenne’s new incandescent street lights o
ffered a marvel views. But the real reason she couldn’t sleep was the weeping she heard coming from Savannah’s room.

Lord, I just don’t know what else to say, what to do. I’m not very good at this. I don’t know very much. Help her. Ease the pain in her heart. I need her to be strong. We all do.

I miss Tap. I wish I was home. I never thought I’d get used to being married so quickly. He looked so tired at the funeral today. He needsrest. He’s probably been asleep for hours. Maybe it's better that I’m not there to bother him.

She shuffled back over to her bed near the high-backed ve
lvet sofa. Slipping off the robe, she climbed under the covers and pulled the flannel sheet up to her chin.

He’s the only man on earth I’ve ever missed.

What am I doing here, Lord?

I want to go home.

Some aromas touch your memory and allow you to relive your past . . . good and bad. The smell of lupine always reminded Tap of his childhood—playing in the foothills of the great Sierra Nevadas along the Tuolumne River. The sweet, pungent aroma of vanilla incense brought him back to the fan-tan game on Sacramento Street in San Francisco and the first time he witnessed a man shot to death, when he was only sixteen. The smell of burnt hair coursed him back to the Santa Rosa Mountains and ten straight days of branding cattle for the Eight Slash Eight. Then there was the smell of the night-blooming cactus flower—deep, haunting, soaking in down to his bones. That reminded him of Teresa and the softest rabbit blanket in the world.

But for Tap there was no smell better than bacon frying on a cold morning. The aroma always sizzled and popped and beckoned him to another day. It shouted out, “Get up. There’s a busy, adventuresome day waiting.” It seemed to make his toes wiggle, his mind awaken, and his tongue w
ater.

He sat straight up in bed and pitched the covers to the cold wooden floor. Grabbing his hat and his holster in his left hand, he shuffled out to the kitchen. He blinked his eyes at the app
arition hovering over the cookstove.

“Pepper? Darlin’, what in the world are you doin’ here?”

“I live here . . . remember? Surely I haven’t been gone that long.”

“But—but I thought .
 . . Didn’t you stay at Savannah’s?”

“Yes. Now are you going outside dressed like that? Or do you have time for some bacon and eggs?”

“I, eh, didn’t know you were out here.”

“Obviously.”

He slipped his arms around her and kissed the back of her neck. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“So you missed me?” She tried to brush her hair back off her face.

“Pepper, I laid awake most of the night wonderin’ if I ought to sneak over to the hotel and pirate you off in your sleep.”

“It wouldn’t have worked.”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t asleep. Now go pull on some britches and let’s eat breakfast. Has Mrs. Wallace been keeping a good eye on you?”

“Like a hawk.”

“Have you got a busy day planned?”

“We’re goin’ to be shorthanded. Merced needs to be fired today. There’s no way to work with a man who gives in to a lynch mob.”

“I hear Mr. Merced has a number of friends around town, especially down at DelGatto’s.”

“Good. He shouldn’t have any trouble finding another job.”

About 7:00
a.m.
they finished breakfast.

Tap didn’t make it to the marshal’s office until almost nine.

The sky was clear. The south wind had blown away all the clouds of the previous day. The breeze felt cool, but not cold. The songs of the birds and the swell of the cottonwood buds hinted of spring. Even the winter gloom that yesterday had depressed his spirit seemed lifted and replaced with a hope generated from a much deeper source than merely the weather.

Carbine Williams, shaggy black hair curling out from u
nder his hat, stood at the hall door talking to someone in the jail cells.

“Mornin’, Tap. We figured you might be takin’ the day off.”

“No, it’s just that I was a little bushed. Who do you have locked up this morning?”

“Just LaPorte, McKay, and a sleepin’ drover.”

“Mornin’, boys,” Tap called.

“Don’t shout so loud,” a weak voice filtered in from the cells.

“Have you seen Merced?”

“Nope. Maybe he went into hiding after you stood him down in the street.”

“I want his badge and his keys. We’re all in this job together, and we can’t have one goin’ off on his own like that.”

“I’ll tell him,” Carbine replied, “but I don’t think he’ll listen to anyone but the city council.”

“They’ll be meetin’ in the next day or two. In the meantime, I’ll tell him myself.” Tap sorted through a stack of papers piled on the desk.

Carbine swung open the front door. He reached into the pockets of his gray wool vest, took out his makings, and rolled a smoke. “Sure does feel good to have Hager out at the Fort and spring in the air. You reckon town will calm down now?”

“I surely hope so. But I got a feelin’ in my gut that Hager isn’t the only source of contention around here. Maybe I’m wrong. Can you and Baltimore handle things this evenin’?”

“You goin’ to that Calico Hop?”

“Yeah, it’s sort of a tradition for the marshal.”

“Don’t that beat all. I bet Angelita two bits you and Pepper weren’t the dancin’ kind.”

“I never was too good,” Tap admitted with a wry grin, “but Pepper can dance the boots off that entire Fort. So I’ll go out and stumble around a bit.”

“Don’t y’all worry about nothin’. With Hager out of town and good weather comin’ on, the drovers will be pullin’ out to the roundup, and the rest of the bummers will be wa
nderin’ on up to the Black Hills.”

“That’s surely what I’m hopin’. Carbine, you haven’t seen Angelita, have you?”

“Reckon she’s down at the U. P. The westbound ought to be rollin’ in soon. She ain’t sellin’ minin’ stock again, is she?”

“No. Looks like she’s got a new scheme. Tell Simp I want to see him if he happens to show his head.”

Tap walked down Ferguson Street, cut over on 16th, and headed for the Union Pacific Station. The terminal was filled with people waiting for the train’s arrival. Several times a week the Denver train and the east/west train rolled in at the same time. The depot was always crowded. He skirted around the crowd and stacks of baggage, but he couldn’t spot Angelita. Finally, he plopped down on a back bench and pulled his hat low over his eyes. He purposely tugged his canvas coat over the deputy badge that decorated his vest. Stretching his legs out in front of him, he closed his eyes and waited.

Steel clanged and steam hissed as the train pulled in. The terminal buzzed with noise, but above it all Tap heard the plaintive, weeping voice of a small, frightened girl.

“And if I don’t have the twenty dollars by noon, they said they would kick grandmother out of the hospital.”

“You say they belonged to Wild Bill Hickok?”

“Yes, sir. These is the very cards he was holdin’ when that villain Jack McCall shot him in the back of the head up at Carl Mann’s #10 Saloon in Deadwood. My daddy was sittin’ at the table that day—August 2, 1876. And I promised on his dyin’ bed I’d never sell these cards . . . but,” she sobbed, “Grandma is all I have left. If she doesn’t get well, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

The wailing continued.

A woman’s voice interjected, “Millard, give the little girl some money.”

“But twenty dollars for black aces and eights—”

“And a jack.”

“It seems rather steep even if it were authentic. Besides, how do we know .
 . .”

The crying had now almost silenced the entire crowd at the terminal.

“Millard, everyone is staring,” the woman insisted.

“Mister, you won’t go wrong with this purchase. A man down at the Front Range Club in Denver offered Daddy over one hundred dollars for these cards. He said he would post them behind the bar.”

“But really I just can’t—”

“You’re going to Denver on the spur, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Take them to the Front Range Club and sell ’em. I’d do it myself, but I don’t have the fare, and I can’t leave my grandma. Please, mister,” she whimpered.

“Millard!”

“Oh .
 . . all right. But it’s against my better judgment.” The man began to reach into the pocket of his tailored suit.

“Angelita,” Tap called out as he stood up and walked t
oward her.

She spun around on the heels of her black lace-up boots and shouted, “Uncle Tap, where have you been?”

As he walked toward the startled couple, Angelita leaped into his arms, throwing her arms around his neck.

“You cost me twenty dollars,” she whispered through a cheesy smile.

“I’ve just stopped by to see your grandmother,” Tap reported. “I paid the bill, so you don’t have to sell the family heirloom.”

“You did?” she beamed. Then she muttered under her breath, “You jerk.”

“Yes, and she’s feeling much better and calling for you. You’d better run along now.”

“Oh, yes, Uncle Tap. Isn’t this wonderful news?” She waved at the bewildered couple. Stuffing the cards back into a pocket in her dress, she scampered toward the door.

“I’ll talk to you later, Uncle Tap,” she hollered.

“Yes, you will,” he replied.

“My, she is quite a spirited young lady. You must be proud of her determination and ingenuity,” the woman observed.

“She is quite a gal, all right.”

“So,” the man interjected, “that really was Wild Bill’s last hand? I almost had it for twenty dollars. Wait until I tell my friends back in Philadelphia. They won’t believe it.”

“It’s unbelievable, all right. Hope you folks have a nice trip to Denver.”

“Thank you, Mr. . . ?”

“Andrews. Tap Andrews.”

After a quick lunch with Pepper, Tap spent most of the afternoon searching for Merced in places like Braun’s Saloon and Bescherer’s Restaurant, the Railroad Hotel and  Goldaker’s Barber Shop and Bathing Rooms. Landau’s Billiard Parlor and John Geer’s Tobacco Shop. Although many folks reported seeing Merced, Tap was unable to locate him. Just as Tap crossed 16th Street, a young voice filtered down from an open second-story window.