Stay Away From That City . . . They Call It Cheyenne (Code of the West) (5 page)

“I don’t know about that. Looks like some old boy holdin’ horses up there by the park.” Stack pointed up the road a quarter mile. “Could be a couple ambushers.”

“That’s Rolly Hayburn. He’s got Brownie and Onespot.”

A few minutes later Stack stopped the wagon next to the horses.

“Thanks for bringin’ my ponies, partner. Be sure you don’t tell anyone what I’m doin’. Here’s four bits for your efforts.”

Rolly slipped off Brownie and scurried back toward town.

“Can you trust him to keep quiet?”

“He’s a good man . . . as long as he stays sober.”

“Does he drink much?”

“Only when he has money.”

“You’re really beggin’ for it, Andrews.”

“Yeah. Aren’t you glad you agreed to this?”

Tap tied the horses to the back of the wagon. Soon he and Stack rolled the wagon north on the Ft. Russell to Ft. Laramie road.

“Which one you figure will show up first—Hager’s drover friends or the bummers out to lynch him?”

“I’m guessin’ his friends. The lynchin’ crowd likes to work in the dark. Besides, most of them are too poor to own horses. I figure that might thin down their ranks. Those dro
vers know they better do somethin’ quick before Hager ends up bein’ tree trimmin’.”

“Where do you reckon they’ll be waitin’?”

“I figure it’s too open ’til we cross the Salt Lake Road and Lodgepole Creek.”

“Maybe in those hills before Carey’s place?”

“Yeah. That would be as good a spot as any. But it’s quite a ways down the trail.”

“We goin’ to wait until they shoot at us?”

“As long as we stay near that laundry sack, I figure his friends won’t do much shootin’.”

Clouds congregated against the Laramie Mountains to the west, but the sky remained blue above them. The temper
ature dropped as the afternoon progressed. Tap and Stack talked about dance halls . . . mutual friends . . . good race horses . . . the benefits of married life . . . and the money to be made in the freighting business. Mostly they watched every rock, boulder, and coulee for any signs of ambush.

The sun inched down into the cloudy western sky, and all they had spotted were hundreds of pronghorns and a few slinking coy
otes.

“Where do you usually camp for the night?” Tap asked.

“Up near Swan’s headquarters.”

“At Chugwater?”

“Yeah. Look up there.” Stack Lowery pointed to the large boulders north of them. “That pass looks like a good place to jump someone.”

“Pull up and rest the horses.”

“What?”

“Let’s park it right up there in the rocks and give ’em a good chance.”

“Dad gum it, Tap, we don’t have to wear ‘Shoot Me’ signs on our hats.”

“Come on, Stack. It beats the boring life of a teamster, doesn’t it?”

The big man slid a shotgun from under the seat and broke it open to check the chambers. He rubbed the road dust off his face with the red bandanna that hung around his neck, and then he roared, “Jist like bacon in the pan, boys. Come and get it.”

Racing up the hill, Stack drove the wagon to the east side of the road, slipped to the ground, and checked the rigging on the mules. He carried the shotgun in his left hand and kept one eye on the tall boulders on the west side of the road. Several scrub cedars and piñon pines struggled for existence among the rocks and baked red ground.

“Well, boss man, what are we goin’ to do?” Stack mumbled beneath his breath. “Wait for one of us to get shot?” He turned to see that Tap had his pistol pointed at the sack full of jail blankets and bricks.

“How about gettin’ me a ladle of water from the barrel?” Tap asked.

“You bust a leg or somethin’?”

“I’ve got to stay up here and guard the prisoner,” Tap ho
llered in a loud voice.

“Eh .
 . . yeah . . . right.” Stack pried off the barrel lid, scooped with the wooden ladle, and handed it, brimming with water, up to Tap.

“This is mighty silly if there ain’t no one watchin’ us,” Stack hec
kled.

“I was thinkin’ the same thing.”

Stack mumbled as he swung back up on the driver’s seat of the wagon, “How long are we goin’ to stay here?”

“You guard the prisoner. I’ll go back and check on my po
nies.”

“You mean I got to hold a gun on a sack of blankets and bricks?”

“Yeah, but be careful. Don’t let him get the drop on you.”

Stack took a deep breath. “Hager, you’re in a fine fix. Back in town most folks want to hang you, and out here you’re hogtied and travelin' with that madman, Tap A
ndrews. You better mind your p’s and q’s. Andrews is known to just haul off and gut-shoot a man for lookin’ cross-eyed at him. Why, you got about as much chance escapin’ as an Easter egg in an orphanage. Jist between you and me, you’d have a better gamble with a lynch mob than Mr. Tapadera Andrews.”

Faking a loud whisper, Stack continued talking to the stuffed laundry bag. “I hear that down in Arizony he’d jist go on a tear and shoot ever’one in the room. Yes, sir, it makes ol’ Billy Bo
nney look like a choirboy. If I was you, I’d lay real still and be as quiet as a sick cow in a snowbank. That’s the way. You jist lay right there and pray no one tries to spring you. He will kill you for sure if they come a shootin’.”

Tap pulled himself back into the wagon. “I think that’s e
nough. You really got into this. I guess there’s no one here.”

“I’m surely glad. This is gettin’ embarrassin’. Can we go on? I can make Swan’s before dark.”

“Yeah, but take it slow. We aren’t going to the stockade. We’ll stop this side of the headquarters.”

“You aim to give plenty of chances?”

“Yep.”

Tap listened to the squeaking wheels and groan of the wagon. The cloud cover was still broken enough that they rumbled into the su
nlight. Tap felt the duck canvas coat warm up. His ’73 Winchester across his lap, pointed at the laundry sack, Tap closed his eyes. His chin dropped to his chest.

I need to get more sleep, but with Pappy gone, I su
ppose we’ll all have longer hours.

A stiff jolt woke him. The wagon wheel had dropped into a rut. Tap sat straight up. “What are we doin’ out here? Where’s the road?”

“Looked like a landslide up ahead, so I pulled out here to avoid havin’ to clean the trail. You can crawl back into that laundry sack if you want to sleep.”

“Landslide? Where?”

Stack pointed west. “On the other side of them boulders.”

“It's probably an a
mbush. We ought to be over there.”

“Dad blame it. That’s the first time I ever got raked for avoidin’ a trap.”

“Can’t we pull back?”

“This trip is stranger than one of them Original Mel
odrama’s down at Tivoli Hall.”

“Pull over in that draw.”

“You aimin’ to feed the laundry sack, or what?”

“We’re goin’ to camp there for the night.”

“Ain’t nobody dumb enough to camp out in the open plains like this,” Stack argued.

“If we don’t snag ’em by the time the moon’s out, you can roll on up to Swan’s ranch, and I’ll ride back to town.”

“The way them clouds is moundin’ up against the Laramies, there ain’t goin’ to be no moon.”

Stack dropped off into the draw and unhitched his team. “Little Bear Crick’s runnin’ enough water for thirsty mules. How about your ponies?”

“I’m goin’ to leave the saddles cinched in case I have to light out in a hurry.”

“Do you really want to make camp here?”

“Let’s at least get a fire goin’.”

“A smoky one, I reckon. Did you ever think about what we’ll do if four hundred Sioux warriors come ridin’ over that hill?”

“Yeah. Pray a lot.”

They staked the mule team by the creek that ran about four feet wide and half a foot deep. With very little vegetation near it, Tap figured it was dry most of the year.

“Just exactly what are we plannin’ on buildin’ a fire out of? There ain’t even many buffalo chips out here,” Stack complained.

“Scratch around up the draw. Maybe you’ll run across some sage. I’ll check downstream.”

“Who’s going to guard the ‘prisoner’?”

Tap peered swiftly around the horizon. He spoke as loud as he naturally could. “I’ve got him leg-ironed to that box of dynamite. If he tries to climb down, I’ll shoot that box and blow him to kingdom come.”

Stack grinned and wandered up the creek.

Tap had a pitifully small, dry sage fire smoking and popping. He glanced around for Stack.

Where did that piano man go? Surely he didn’t hike up to those cottonwoods. We don’t need that much fire.

The faint scrape of boot heels on rocks caused him to swing up into the wagon. He pointed the ’73 Winchester at the laundry bag. Stack strolled into the clearing, his hands above his head. Behind him strutted two men holding guns, one of whom wore a red shirt. The other man was heavyset and looked like a Mexican or Indian.

“Boys, what a surprise.”

“We want Hager,” red shirt demanded.

“You come any closer, and old Jerome here gets his head blowed off.”

“You cut him out of that sack. We saw you load him up behind the courthouse.”

“You boys don’t miss nothin’, do ya?”

“We’ll shoot this teamster if you don’t let him loose. So let’s just trade straight across.”

“How dumb do you think I am?”

“You ain’t too smart, Deputy, to camp out here,” the dark-skinned one taunted.

“I told Stack we should’ve stopped up by that rock slide.” Tap tried to hold back a grin.

“Primo, this deputy is even stupider than you said. We was waitin’ up there. You didn’t have a chance. Now let Jerome out.”

“You boys sure enough got the drop on us.”

“It was Petey’s plan,” Primo boasted.

"How about one of you comin’ over here and helpin’ me. He’s mighty heavy.”

Petey treaded over to the wagon, his gun pointed at Tap. Primo guarded Stack.

“You can’t let him down one-handed,” Tap insisted. “Stick that hog-leg back in your holster.”

“Keep that big one covered, Primo,” Petey called. He shoved his gun into his holster and reached up to the canvas laundry sack.

Tap gave a quick nod to Stack. “You know what, Petey? Jerome just isn’t worth all this trouble.”

“What do ya mean?”

“If he goes ridin’ off with you, I’ll just have to chase you down. I could waste a whole day before I found you and shot you. On the other hand, if I take him up the road, I’ll just have to bring him back for trial. Either way it’s a whole pa
ssel of trouble. And what for? Everyone knows he will hang.”

Tap seemed to study the bag. “Sorry, but you’re more trouble than you’re worth.” He squeezed the tri
gger and blasted a small, round hole in the laundry bag.

“He's still movin’.” Tap fired another shot.

Petey’s mouth dropped open. Primo gaped in astonishment.

Tap crashed the rifle barrel into Petey’s head just above the ear.

Stack dropped Primo with an elbow into the Adam’s apple and a left cross that lifted the gunman off the ground.

“Thank you, Mr. Lowery.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Andrews. Now can I hitch my team back up and get on the trail?”

“Go on. I’ll tie up these boys and see if I can find their horses.”

“I thought they were goin’ to faint dead away when you blasted that sack.”

By the time Petey and Primo revived, Tap had them tied up and sitting on the ground next to what was left of the fire. He lashed the sack of blankets and bricks onto Onespot’s back and tied Primo’s and Petey’s horses in a string behind Onespot.

Stack had hitched his team and was perched in the wagon. “You sure you want me to go on?”

“Get on up to the Black Hills and make that big money! I’ll take these two back to town.”

“What about that lynch mob? You surmise they’re on the trail? It’ll be dark soon.”

“I reckon they’re on their way. But they’ll stay on the road. I won’t. There didn’t look to be a one in that DelGatto crowd that could read sign.”

“Still, if they find you, you’ll have to take ’em all on by yourself.”

“I’m hopin’ they’ll follow your wagon. When they catch up to you, just tell them I ran into a little trouble and decided to take Hager someplace else.”

“Good luck,
amigo
. Take care of that yellow-haired girl. You ever treat her bad, I’ll come after you like a bear with his toes stepped on.”

“Yep. I imagine you would.”

Stack slapped the reins and drove the wagon up the draw back toward the road. Tap helped Petey and Primo up on their mounts. He led them straight back to the rock slide on the road and turned south toward Cheyenne. Sullen, both men refused to talk until just after the sun went down.