My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand (Code of the West) (8 page)

“What about the other one?” Cabe bellowed from a safe p
osition behind the buckboard.

“He won’t follow. Not even Snake Dutton is that dumb.”

They reached the North Platte within the hour. Tap turned them east toward the Nebraska line. Not much deeper than a foot, the river ran a sandy, caramel color and stretched a good hundred feet across. Willow, box elder, cottonwood, and ash trees lined both banks, with brush thick between them.

One man couldn’t work that brush. Not at this time of the year with all the trees and bushes leafed out. There’s enough cover to hide cattle or rustlers or both. Someone ought to come up here in the winter and burn the brush.

But not me.

The river provided a ribbon of greenery in an otherwise buc
kskin-colored landscape under an expansive blue Wyoming sky. Tap's bandanna drooped with sweat as he bounced and swayed in rhythm to Roundhouse’s steady trot. With toes hooked in the stirrups, knees pressed lightly against the horse’s flanks, back as straight as a schoolteacher’s ruler, he surveyed the distant horizon.

Downriver he viewed a building. Tracker stopped the wagon and waited for Tap to catch up.

“What’s up ahead?”

“Ought to be Shaver’s Crossing. A little store and a ferry, I think. A friend of mine freights up here sometimes. He didn’t recommend the place. We could cross the river anywhere at this time of year. But you might want to put the wagon on the ferry. You could always hit a bog hole, I suppose.”

“What will it cost?”

“Probably $2.00 or $2.50 for the wagon. Maybe cheaper when the water’s low. If it weren’t for the bramble along the river, this land would be mighty good for grazin’.”

“How many head would you suppose it could support?” Tracker asked.

“Depends on how long you leave ’em, I reckon. They say it held ten thousand Indians and three hu
ndred troops for a month.”

“When was that? We’re not up near the Little Big Horn, are we?” Cabe quizzed.

“Nope. That’s up past the Montana border. In ’51 they moved the Ft. Laramie Treaty Council from the Fort to right here at the head of Horse Creek. Ten thousand Sioux, Cheyennes, Arapahos, Crows, and Snakes gathered with a few government officials and about three hundred troops for a big powwow.”

Jacob Tracker pulled off his hat and wiped his brow. “Must have been quite a sight.”

“You said it.”
Tracker, how come the top of your forehead isn’t lily-white like ever’ cowman I’ve ever known? No one works outside without a hat . . . except for prisoners.

“Is that another creek leadin’ northeast?” Tracker pointed across the river.

“I think it’s Spring Crick, but I’m not sure. You thinkin’ of lookin’ for a place around here?” Tap queried.

“Nope. It’s too open.” Tracker seemed to be searching for words. “Not enough protection from cold winds, storms, and all that. You know what I mean?”

Tap shoved his rifle, which had been draped across his lap, back into the scabbard as he stared at Jacob Tracker.

Too open for what? Why is it I keep thinkin’ I’m not in on the whole plan here?

“Andrews,” Cabe began, “you sure did drop that bushwhacker in a hurry. I thought you claimed they were friends of yours.”

“Nope. They said they were friends. I only admitted I knew them. If you give me the choice between gettin’ killed or shootin’ back, I’ll shoot back ever’ time, no matter who’s holdin’ the gun. I figure the Lord’s got my days numbered, but I don’t want any dimwit with a gun tryin’ to shortchange me.”

“Then how do me and Tracker know you won’t be takin’ a shot at us? You plannin’ on shootin’ me?” Cabe challenged.

“If I felt my life was in danger, I wouldn’t give it a second thought. Boot Hill is full of men who waited too long. Take old Texas Jay back there. He was plannin’ on sneakin’ up behind and shootin’ me in the back. But he was nervous and didn’t sneak up nearly close enough. As soon as I whirled around and threw my rifle to my shoulder, it gave him a se
cond thought about the matter. When he finally decided to go ahead and pull the trigger, he felt he had to hurry his shot and pulled it to the left.”

“I ain’t the type to give it a second thought neither,” Cabe i
nsisted. “If I get the first shot, you’re a dead man.”

“It’ll be a frigid day in hades when you get the drop on me. You’ve got a .45 on ya. Go for it.”

“Oh, I’ll do it, but it'll be my way.”

“Whoa,” Tracker intervened. “You’re both on the same side this time. Let’s ride up to the store and grab ourselves a stiff drink. A
ndrews, you figure on campin’ in the willows tonight?”

“Nope. That would be like settin’ bandit bait in those thic
kets. I’d like to cross the river and camp up against the hills. Besides, I never like puttin’ off a river crossin’.”

“At least we can stop long enough to have that shot of whiskey,” Cabe put in.

“You boys get what you need. I don’t drink. Think I’ll check out the dry goods.”

“I’ve never met a shootist who didn’t drink.”

“You probably never met one that went to church either.”

“No. Don’t reckon so.”

“You ever met an
old
gunfighter?  I aim to be the first. Besides, I’m not a shootist anymore. I’m a brand inspector.”

“Yeah, and I’m a lawyer,” Cabe scoffed.

The store at Shaver’s Crossing had at one time been an important stop on the Oregon Trail. Thousands of immigrant wagons had crossed the North Platte there, years before a bridge spanned the river near Ft. Laramie. The transcontinental railroad all but eliminated the need for wagons west, and by 1883 Shaver’s was not much more than a crumbling log cabin saloon with one wall of mostly overpriced and outdated dry goods.

Four bored horses stood tied to a rail outside the front of the store. An old farm wagon with two black horses still hitched stood abandoned askew in the box elders near the river. The gray brush corrals behind the building held two mules, a tall swayback mare, and three weeks’ worth of u
nshoveled manure. Several log rounds lounged across the front porch, waiting to be used for temporary seating.

The two windows in the front of the building were boarded up, giving the impression that the place was permanently closed. Scrawled in faded red paint on one of the boards were the words, “This saloon is open.” The sign on the other boarded window was equally rustic. “Goods in Endless Var
iety.” Two razor-thin dogs fought with a half-grown hog over the garbage that had been tossed out into the front yard.

Tracker pulled the buckboard over by the trees and at once got into some sort of argument with Cabe. Tap ignored them and tied Roundhouse up next to a black gelding that was losing a battle with a swarm of gnats around his eyes. Swatting two mosquitos off the back of his hand and sucking in a big breath of musty stench, Tap entered the dimly lit building.

An emotionless card game occupied four expressionless men with grimy hats and worn-out faces. At the bar a short man with a round hat stared into a shot glass devoid of whiskey. Tap couldn’t tell if he was asleep or dead. He certainly wasn’t moving. The other man at the bar waved his hands with every word he spoke, but no one listened.

Tap sauntered over to the bartender.

“That old boy talk his partner to death or what?” Tap grinned.

“He’s been goin’ on like that since this mornin’. Don’t pay him no mind. He thinks he’s King Frederick. Whatever you do, don’t buy him a drink. We’ll never get him to leave. What can I get you, mi
ster?”

“I was hopin’ for a good cup of coffee and a look at your dry goods.”

“Dry goods? I’ll sell you the whole store if you’re interested. I’ll get you some coffee, but I’ll tell you the gospel truth—it ain’t worth drinkin’ except if you’re half-asleep or full-drunk.”

The man worked a wad of tobacco from between his teeth and spat it toward the floor behind the bar.

“Anything in particular you lookin’ fer in dry goods? Got some mighty fine canvas britches from San Francisco. Mr. Strauss makes a superior pair of overall jeans.”

Tap took the tin cup of lukewarm coffee and swished it around to see how many grounds were floating in it. One swig of bitter, gritty brew caused him to shove his hat back and shudder. “Actually I was lookin’ for some baby clothes. You don’t happen to have anything like that, do you?”

The bartender, who wore a well-used brown leather vest over his long-sleeved tan cotton shirt, pointed toward a trunk in the corner. “That whole trunk is full of baby clothes. It was sittin’ right there when I bought the store seven years ago. It ain’t moved, and I ain’t sold nothin’ out of it. I’ll sell you the trunk and ever’thing in it for five cash dollars.”

“Let me take a look. The wife’s expectin’, and it would be nice to help her out with some new goods.”

“I didn’t say they was new. I think some pilgrim traded it for a ferry crossin’ years ago. It’s all used, but it’s folded in there neat enough.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to sort through it.”

“Help yourself. Remember, the whole batch for five dollars. You do have that much cash on you, don’t you?”

Tap glanced at the card game and back at the two men at the bar. Resting his right hand on the grip of his .44 Colt, he stared at the man. “Do you?”

“Do I what?” the bartender asked.

“Do you have five cash dollars in that cigar box under the bar?”

The man ran the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes narrowed. “What I got or ain’t got in my poke is none of your blasted business.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more. I surely don’t need to know what’s in your poke, and you don’t need to know what’s in mine. If I don’t die from drinkin’ the coffee, I’ll sort through that trunk now.”

He found the clothes moth-eaten and musty but neatly folded. He was about to close the trunk when Tracker and Cabe pushed their way into the building. From the far corner of the room, Tap watched as they strolled over to the bar.

You boys playin’ cards seem mighty interested in those two. You don’t happen to be plottin’ some corrupt scheme, are you?

The mumbling man at the bar continued to blab.

The slumbering man slept on.

Two of the men at the card table shoved their chairs back and rested their hands on the grips of their holstered revolvers.

A bearded man at the table who perspired through his white shirt, reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a gold watch, then loosened his tie.

Tap hunkered behind the open trunk as if checking out the goods. He couldn’t hear Tracker and Cabe's conversation, but he figured they must have ordered something because the bartender set an amber bottle and two glasses in front of them.

“You fellas passin’ through?”

Tracker said something, but Tap could only hear the bartender’s reply. “Lookin’ fer work, are ya?”

Again there was some response that Tap couldn’t hear.

“That’s good, ’cause there ain’t much work around here.”

The bartender nodded as Tracker and Cabe talked. “You don’t say. Goin’ to buy a ranch, huh? Well, this side of the river Swan Land and Cattle’s got about ever’thing tied up. They tell me he’s runnin’ almost 100,000 head of beef.”

The bartender pulled a ragged hunk of tobacco out of his vest pocket, ripped off a piece of it with his teeth, and then offered the rest to the other two. Both declined.

“’Course, you’d have to go all the way to Custer City or back to Cheyenne to draw a bank draft. Unless you was ca
rryin’ a big poke with you. But that surely ain’t none of my business.”

Even from across the room, Tap could see Cabe reach for his vest pocket and then quickly put his hand back down.

That-a-boy, Wes, tell ’em where you keep your poke. Surely you two can tell when you’re gettin’ set up. A professional gambler wouldn’t fall for that, would he? At least, not a successful one.

Sweat rolled down the back of his neck. There seemed to be no air circulation. The man with the beard nodded. Two of the men at the table stepped toward the front door. They loitered there as if looking at a barrel of hard tack that gat
hered dust by the entrance.

Makes a man wish he had a Greener. A snub-nosed shotgun would cover ground a whole lot quicker. Now don’t do anything dumb, boys. I’ve done enough shootin’ for one day.

The man with the beard nodded at the bartender, who looked over at the babbling fool and cleared his throat. The talking man shut up. Tracker and Cabe glanced his way.

The man Tap thought was asleep hoisted Cabe’s .45 r
evolver and cocked the hammer. Cabe and Tracker spun around. The formerly blabbing drunk shoved a knife blade under Tracker’s chin.

“What the .
 . . ?” Cabe blustered.

“You just put your pokes right out here on the table, and we might let you ride away.” The bearded man's smile showed ye
llowed teeth.

“You can’t do this,” Tracker complained.

“We can and we will,” the man holding the knife insisted. “You’re dealin’ with the Platte River Boys, mister. This is our territory, and it’s goin’ to cost you.”