Where the Deer and the Antelope Play (Code of the West) (17 page)

Tap slipped his revolver back into the holster and slapped the ’73 to his shoulder.

Keep your head down, old horse .
 . .

The metal sights were only two inches above the horse’s ears when he squeezed the trigger. As he expected, the blast sent the horse galloping down the incline toward the barn at Pingree Hill. But what Tap didn’t expect was that the man was able to retrieve his carbine and fire two quick shots at Tap as he dove into the rocks for cover.

That’s not Little Bob. That looks like . . .

The second shot sprayed granite slivers into the right side of Tap’s face, and the pain racked his ear.

Jimmy Ray? What in the world are you doin’ out here?

Two more quick shots from the carbine kept Tap pinned down. As soon as there was a pause, Tap rolled to the right and came up on his knees. With bullets flying to the left of him, he leveled the rifle as Jimmy Ray staggered straight at him still firing wildly.

Nobody’s crazy enough to run straight into a rifle.

Jimmy Ray plowed ahead. The bullet from Tap’s .44-40 caught him in the right side of the chest. The shot lifted him off the ground and slammed him into the rocks near the head of the trail. He tried to rise to his good leg, then fell facedown into the snow.

Tap approached the gunman with caution, keeping his rifle cocked and pointed. Jimmy Ray struggled to raise his head. Kneeling by his side, Tap rolled him over on his back and propped his head on a rock.

“Jimmy Ray, you didn’t give me much of a choice.”

Spitting blood, he cursed Andrews. “You killed me last week, you . . .”

Tap noticed the bandaged leg. “You let it turn to ga
ngrene? I told you to tourniquet it, keep it cold, and see a doc. What did your friends do, desert you in a hot cabin?”

“They never came back. Did you kill them, too?”

“I left ’em in Rico Springs—pretty much alive.”

“Don’t leave me out here in the snow. I hate the cold. Take me down to the barn. You owe me.”

“I owe you?”

“You chased off our cows, shot me down straight away, and then stole our poke. You owe me. Don’t leave me up here for the wolves. Bury me down there at Pingree Hill.”

“Can’t promise you anythin’, Jimmy Ray. The ground won’t thaw for three months.”

“The barn .
 . . bury me in the barn. You know it ain’t frozen.”

“I don’t plan on .
 . .”

Tap stopped talking as Jimmy Ray was overcome with coughing. Then, with a deep guttural growl, he collapsed into silence. Tap didn’t bother checking his pulse. He hiked back up the bluff and retrieved Brownie. Returning to the dead outlaw, he dismounted and lashed Jimmy Ray across Brownie’s rump. He could see Jimmy Ray’s horse waiting near the barn as he rode slowly down the grade toward the dance hall ruins.

Lord, I didn’t want to shoot Jimmy Ray—and I surely don’t want to try to bury him. Maybe the ground under the dance hall will be soft enough to dig. I don’t have to go down very far. It’ll be dark in an hour. I’ll need to hit the trail . . . or maybe stay in the barn.

He stopped by the burned-out dance hall and stared through the evening shadows at the rubble.

Maybe there’s a piece of a shovel left in this mess.

He turned Brownie toward the barn.

I don’t understand why he didn’t take care of that wound. I don’t understand why I get drawn into these things. I don’t understand who shot at the barn last night. Jimmy Ray didn’t have the range with that carbine. Took his cows? They were Rafter R beef. Shot him point blank? He was tryin’ to kill me. Stole his poke? His poke? He wasn’t even at Rico Springs with the others. How did he know what happened? He must have talked to them. . . . That means Karl and the others are here.

Tap dove into the charred wreckage of April’s dance hall just as bullets flew at him from the barn. Brownie bolted up the road. Jimmy Ray’s body bounced behind the saddle.

Not finding much cover, Tap dragged himself through the soot of the kitchen. Bullets whizzed overhead with gun smoke encasing the road between him and the barn.

His right leg tore through the charred remains and  da
ngled into what was left of a root cellar. He jerked his leg free and dove behind one of the three rock chimneys that stood as proud memorials. Bullets ricocheted off the rocks. He tried to determine the direction of each of the shots.

Jimmy Ray, I’ll have to hand it to you. Most men get real ho
nest when they’re dyin’, and you lied to the end. Makin’ a suicide run at me and then askin’ to be buried in the barn. That would have been real nice. Me hefting Jimmy Ray’s body and the boys shootin’ holes in me.

His eyes surveyed the ruins, looking for a way back up Pi
ngree Hill. He jammed his hat on a rock that had tumbled off the fireplace and ran his fingers through his dark brown hair. After a heavy barrage of gunfire, Tap fired off several wild shots at the barn and dove back out into the middle of what was left of the kitchen floor. The gun smoke provided enough cover to slip down into the root cellar.

Tap figured that the burst of bullets from the barn were cover for someone to break out to the north and circle around the dance hall ruins. Two other guns fired an occ
asional bullet, but it was obvious they were just waiting.

Scrunched down in the ruins of the root cellar, Tap stared up at the darkening gray sky that flickered through the br
oken, burned timbers overhead. He pumped his Colt with six cartridges from his bullet belt and tried to wipe the black smudges from his face.

I’ve got to narrow the odds. If I can bring down one of ’em and keep the others back for half an hour, it’ll be dark enough .
 . . maybe.

Several minutes later he finally heard a man shout from b
ehind the privies. “He’s gone. He ain’t there, Karl. He ain’t in the dance hall.”

“He’s got to be,” Karl shouted.

The voice sounded closer. “Well, he ain’t.”

“Maybe he’s dead. Is he lyin’ there dead?”

“Nope. There ain’t no one here, I tell you. . . . Come see for yourself.”

“You check it out.”

The man cautiously approached. Tap crouched down lower.

Come on .
 . . come over here . . .

Two quick shots rang out, and Tap raised his revolver and pointed it toward what he could see of the sky through the -timbers.

“Did you get him?” someone in the barn yelled.

“Nah. It’s just his hat. He must be laying dead in these ti
mbers, but I can’t see him. Come on out, boys, and give me a hand finding him.”

The barn door squeaked open, and boot heels stomped t
oward the dance hall.

Not yet. I don’t need all three of you yet.

Bufe’s tattered black hat appeared. Then he stared down into the charred timbers and spotted Tap. He raised his gun, but the blast from Tap’s .44 Colt beat him. Bufe tumbled into the blackened ruins.

“He shot Bufe,” someone shouted.

“Where is he? I don’t see him.”

“Gun smoke’s over there in the corner.”

“I don’t see anyone.”

“He cain’t jist disappear.”

Three more shots fired in Tap’s direction. He hunkered down and waited for the others to come closer.

“You get him?” It sounded like Karl’s booming voice.

“Just his hat. I can’t see him. . . . Where is he? He must be over there.”

“Ain’t nothin’ over here but ashes and charred wood.”

“Maybe he’s back at them outhouses. He could be using that rifle.”

“If he were back there, we’d be dead by now. He’s in here. We seen the gun smoke.”

Tap heard some shuffling of position and muffled conversation.

“You go up to the privies, Hank. I’ll stay here, and we’ll wait him out.”

Karl, if you think I believe that.

The acid smell of charred timbers all around him forced Tap to keep rubbing his mustache and nose to keep from sneezing. It seemed as if half the kitchen had collapsed into the root ce
llar. He eased around behind a burned beam and leaned against a dug-out dirt shelf lined with glass jars of moldy fruit. From this spot he could barely see the top of the barn across the road.

“Are you all set?” Karl hollered.

Hank’s not at the privies, but I don’t know where he is. . . . Come on, boys, make a move.

The snap of a charred timber caused Tap to look up in the shadows to the right.

“Hey! Here he is,” Hank shouted. His first shot down through the ruins broke a jar of fruit by Tap’s left shoulder. Tap’s bullet caught Hank in the neck. Hank’s second shot fired wildly toward the barn, but he was dead when he dropped to the ashes.

A barrage of bullets ripped down into the six-foot-by-eight-foot root cellar. Tap tried to crawl behind more timbers and turned around with his back against the dirt floor. Glass jars shattered everywhere. Beams shifted and started to collapse from the weight of Hank’s body.

I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll be buried alive. Lord, I hope Karl’s still on the fireplace side of the building.

Shoving a timber aside, Tap pulled himself to the end of the cellar to stairs carved into the dirt. He pushed himself straight up out of the ashes and fired two quick shots toward the ki
tchen fireplace. There was so much gun smoke he couldn’t tell where the surviving gunman was. He dove out of the ruins into the snow-packed yard. Two bullets struck the ground behind him. In one motion he rolled to his knees and fired at Karl. The gunman held a revolver in each hand but peered back into the smoke.

The bullet hit Karl in the center of the chest below the rib cage. He staggered back but managed to fire two shots at Tap. The first ripped through the left shoulder of Tap’s coat, slicing deep into the muscle like a branding iron. The second hit the dirt in front of him. Karl slumped to his knees.

Tap’s final shot slammed into the gunman just above his right eye. The big man flew backwards, collapsing motionless in the ruins.

Tap stood to his feet and gasped for breath. He pulled off his rolled burgundy bandanna and stuck it under his coat to stop the bleeding. It was almost dark, but he could see that his coat and trousers were covered with soot and ashes, except for a splattering of rotten peaches—and a red streak of blood oo
zing from his shoulder.

I’ve got to get Brownie.

I’ve got to get cleaned up.

I’ve got to get to McCurleys’.

Weak and weary, Tap staggered up the road east where the gelding waited, Jimmy Ray still strapped to his back.

After six steps, Tap crumpled to one knee. He forced himself back on his feet and took a few more steps. He heard the creak of a wagon and a shout from the south. Tap spun and tried to raise his Colt.

“I don’t know what’s goin’ on here, mister, but don’t raise the pistol. I’ve got some buckshot in this scattergun that will split you in two,” a voice shouted.

The wagon rolled closer as Tap caught his breath. A woman drove it. A man with a shotgun sat beside her. Tap tried to wipe the soot and sweat from his eyes. He gawked at the two in the wagon.

“Rena? Wade?”

“I should have known,” the woman’s voice roared. “Unde
rneath that filth is Mr. Tap Andrews, I suppose.”

“Am I glad to see you two,” Tap replied. He took one more step toward the wagon .
 . . and fell on his face.

Everything was a bit blurry and disorienting for a while. Tap knew that Wade Eagleman helped him to the barn where he lay back in the hay and caught his breath. Rena poured some burning liquid on his shoulder wound and then bound his shoulder with a sack and the bandanna. Without any water, she gave up trying to clean him.

Tap raised up, trying to gingerly put his coat on, when Wade returned to the barn.

“I’m glad it’s gettin’ dark. I won’t have to look at you. Come on, we’re drivin’ through the night to reach McCurleys’. The way it’s threatenin’ to snow, we need to keep movin’.”

“What about all this?”

Wade shoved his wide-brimmed black hat down tight and tugged on some leather gloves. “You mean, the bodies you left lyin’ around?”

“Eh, yeah.”

“You know a man named Kasdorf?”

“He’s got a farm and a whole passel of daughters south of here.
I don’t really know them, but Pepper does.”

“He rode up to see what all the shootin’ was about. He o
ffered to come up tomorrow and see that they get buried. Meanwhile, he’s takin’ their horses to his place to wait for someone to claim them. So, come on. I’ve got Brownie tied behind the wagon. Rena has plenty of blankets. Let’s deliver you to that blonde beauty of yours.”

Wrapped in a green quilt, Tap crawled up next to Rena. Wade drove the rig west. The outline of the road could barely be spotted in the snow-reflected darkness. Tap pulled the blanket clear over his hat in the back to keep the frigid breeze off his neck.

Rena spread a big buffalo robe over their legs. They rattled alongside the mountains of northern Colorado for an hour without talking much.