I'm Off to Montana for to Throw the Hoolihan (Code of the West) (15 page)

He rested his head on the brown leather sofa back and stared at the pounded copper ceiling. “Me and Odessa will ride up to Cedar Mesa to check some boundary markers. And as long as we’re in the neighborhood, ride a few more hours to Badger Canyon.”

“Will you use your gun if necessary?”

“To protect myself? Certainly.”

“Will you use it to protect Mr. Miller?”

He sighed. “It’s not that easy. My natural reaction is to say, ‘Yes, of course,’ but Mr. Miller doesn’t want me to do that.”

“Mrs. Miller does.”

“That’s why this is so difficult. If I have to shoot someone to save Mr. Miller’s life, it will offend him greatly.”

“So what will you do?”

“I imagine I’ll lay awake half the night trying to figure that out.”

“What are you going to do the other half of the night?” Pepper teased.

“Rub your back, darlin’, rub your back.”

“Andrews, you’re a sweet-talkin’ romeo. You knew exactly what I wanted to hear.”

He glanced over at the sparkling green eyes. “Oh, yeah, that’s me—Mr. Smooth Talker himself.”

“How about just picking me up and carrying me to bed?”

His brown eyes grew wide. “You want me to do what?”

“That was a joke, dear.”

“But if you wanted me to, I’m sure I could do it.”

“Mrs. Miller isn’t the only one afraid of becoming a widow. I think I’ll walk.”

The clouds scattered over the winter blue sky. A mud-drying wind whipped from the west. It was cold and biting, but it wasn’t winter. Just a hint of what was to come.

Tap rode out from the house alone. His grey felt hat pulled low, a black silk bandanna double-wrapped at his neck, wool vest buttoned tight, canvas coat buttoned only at the top, leather gauntlets covered his hands. Behind the rolled binding of the deep-seated cantle was a bedroll, slicker, grub bag, and worn Winchester box that contained fifty reloaded .44-40 cartridges.

Roundhouse’s breath fogged the air like smoke. The big horse wanted to prance in the crisp morning air, but Tap held him back and made him walk. “We’ve got a long day, Roundy—mighty long day. Don’t wear yourself out.”

’Course it would have gone by a little quicker if Lorenzo had come along. But I’m not going to go banging on the door and disturbing them. Howdy said they ate the supper he left on their porch, but other than that, no one’s seen them since they got back to the ranch. Pepper said they needed time to settle into a new routine. But how much settlin’ do two people need?

Tap rode all the way to Cedar Mesa before he stopped to build a fire and eat. The hard rain of the previous day had erased all disti
nguishable tracks. Following landmarks he remembered from the previous week, Tap headed in the general direction of Badger Canyon.

The sun peeked between the clouds long enough for Tap to see it was three-quarters across the sky. He cut across the top of a north- and south-running dry wash. It branched off from a west-running creek he was fairly confident led to the box ca
nyon that walled in Miller’s homestead. The dry gulch offered a narrow trail leading south. Rain had washed it out except for a curved path along an overhanging basalt outcropping. Tap rode down to the overhang and studied the sign.

Two ponies wearing shoes .
 . . maybe yesterday . . . Ezra and Peter brought their wagon. Could be some of those trying to run them off. I ought to ride out on that trail. It must lead back to the river sooner or later.

Tap pulled his ’73 rifle out of the scabbard and laid it across his lap. He kept Roundhouse at a steady walk. “Got to take it easy, big boy. Might be a welcoming committee waitin’ for us.”

Reaching the creek again, he turned east and stayed on the south side, even though the only trail was on the north side of the creek. Meandering through brush, trees, and tiny meadows, he picked his way up the five-foot-wide shallow creek.

“Roundy, we ought to be gettin’ close to where they jumped us last week. It all looks a little different in the da
ylight—from this side of the crick.”

An hour later Tap caught a glimpse of something red on the slope of the mountain. Without lifting the rifle from his lap, he cocked the hammer, knowing a cartridge was already in the chamber. Roun
dhouse lifted his nose and turned his head from one side to the other.

“What’s up there, boy? Nice and slow now. We’ll have to ride up out of this brush to get a good look.”

Tap rode into the trees on the south. Coming out behind a clump of small yellow-leafed quaking aspen, he surveyed the scene below. Two men. One wore a red bandanna. They leaned against neighboring trees, their hands and feet strapped around the trunks.

You boys got yourself in a fix. Can’t tell who you are from here, but you're not Miller and his son. Could be Indian bait, waitin’ for someone to try and rescue them. An old Apache trick. But this is such a remote place, it would be like fishin’ for trout in a mud hole.

Or they could be fakin’ it. Maybe they saw me comin’ and wanted to sucker me in. They could have hid their horses behind them cedars.

You’re too suspicious, Andrews. Pappy Divide always said I was the most suspicious man in the West.

’Course, Pappy’s dead now.

Tap broke out of the aspens, his rifle aimed at the bright red ba
ndanna, still a hundred yards away.

“Hey, mister,” came a shout. “We need some help.”

“Man, are we glad to see you. You saved our lives.”

The voices sounded mighty familiar.

Tap raised his rifle to his shoulder and continued to walk Roundhouse toward the men. He could hear every broken twig beneath the big horse’s hooves and the tinkle of the quietly flowing creek. He could see with crystal clarity three small cedar trees on the extreme left of his vision, a cobweb-laced bush that rustled in the wind on the far right, and everything in between, including the nervous eyes of the two bound men.

His feet mashed against the tapadera-covered stirrups. Alert but not alarmed tens
eness grew in his arms, neck, and eyes. The air smelled fresh, new. Each breath carried a taste of anticipation.

Lord, I don’t know if it’s my old nature galloping away with me or if it’s a gift You’ve provided, but when the guns are drawn, when the confrontation comes, it’s as if everything becomes clearer to discern.

“Isn’t this a surprise? It's those famous bank robbers, Jackson and Bean.”

“Andrews, don’t shoot us. We’re unarmed.” Jackson sported a mustache, two-day beard, and a bright red bandanna. His coat unbu
ttoned and his hat crunched in the dirt beside him.

“Think about it. If I shoot the two of you and pack your ca
rcasses back to town and give ’em the money, I’ll be declared a hero. Someone would probably buy me supper ever’ day for a year.”

“But we ain’t got the money. They bushwhacked us.”

“They double-crossed us.” Bean tugged at the stiff three-eighths-inch, four-strand maguey rope that laced his hands to the trunk of the tree. His new wool suit was ripped at the knee, his wool coat flapped open, and his tie dangled around his neck.

“Double-crossed?” Tap repeated.

“Be quiet, Bean.”

“Quiet? We was comin’ to join up with ’em. They was su
pposed to be our friends, and they robbed us and took our bank money. Left us here for dead. I don’t owe them nothin’.”

“They could have just been funnin’ us and plan to come back later and set us free.”

“It ain’t one bit fun.”

“Who double-crossed you?” Tap asked.

“Bean, don’t tell him nothin’,” Jackson shouted.

“You’re crazy. There ain’t goin’ to be no one else come along and cut us free. So he might as well shoot us. It beats lettin’ the wolves and bears gnaw on our bones or the Ind
ians usin’ us for target practice.”

“Who double-crossed you?” Tap repeated.

“It was that Yellow Sash bunch.”

“They rode up here? I heard they hide out on the Crow R
eserve.”

“Crow Reserve, nothin’. They live up there in the old Po
thook-H headquarters. They pay an Indian to hold their relay team on the reservation. Then they sneak across the river and ride up here. By day they pretend to be cowhands. At night they go stealin’. No wonder they don’t want any neighbors. Mister, I’ll make you a deal.”

“Shut up, Bean.”

“Jackson, you can stay tied to a tree if you want. I’m makin’ me a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Tap remained in the sa
ddle, a few feet from the bound men. The barrel of his cocked rifle pointed down at Bean’s head.

“You cut us free, and then we’ll track ’em down, shoot them skunks, and get the bank money back. You can have half of it and we’ll take the other and our rigs. Then we’ll light shuck for Wyomin’. If Jackson don’t want to go, you can leave him tied to the tree. What do you say? A thousand bucks is a lot of money.”

“Two thousand is even more. Why don’t I just keep it all?”

“You goin’ to take on the whole Yellow Sash bunch by you
rself? You’re crazier than we are.”

“You two have tried to sneak up and shoot me in the dark, and you tried to bash in my head with shovel handles. I’ve got a real good idea I’d have a better chance at the Yellow Sash gang with the two of you tied to this tree. But I’m not after any gang—just on a visit to see some friends.”

“You ain’t goin’ to leave us here, are you?” Bean protested.

“I don’t reckon I have any choice. I can’t take you with me on one horse. I can’t turn you loose because you robbed some good people who were countin’ on that money. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If things go according to plan, I’ll be comin’ back this way—maybe with a wagon. If you’re still here, I’ll cut you down and haul you into town to stand trial.”

“We’ll be dead in two days.”

“You might be surprised how tough you are. Besides, you might figure out a way to bust that old maguey. It’s not the toughest rope in the world.”

“We can’t go without water,” Bean complained.

Tap paused.

Proud, stupid, scared, foolish—I don’t know what to do with ’em, Lord. Keep ’em alive until I come this way with a wagon.

He climbed down off Roundhouse and shoved the rifle back into the scabbard. “You boys caught me on a generous day.”

“You going to cut us free?”

“No, but I will give you a drink.” Tap pulled his canteen off his saddle horn.

“Cut my hands loose for the drink,” Bean called out. “My wrists are killin’ me.”

“Afraid not. The hands stay tied.”

“I cain’t drink without usin’ my hands.”

“Sure you can, Bean. You have a low opinion of your own ability.” Tap tugged the cork out of his leather-wrapped ca
nteen. “Open up and don’t take it into your lungs and drown.”

When Bean lifted up his mouth, his hat tumbled to the ground. He took a mouthful of water that spilled down on his neck and shirt. Tap waited for him to swallow and then gave him another drink.

“Thanks, mister. I cain’t say I’d do the same for you if the tables was turned. Could you jam my hat back on my head? I feel a little warmer with my hat on.”

“Jackson, you want a drink or not?”

“What I want is to live long enough to kill you.”

"I’m gettin’ on that horse and ridin’ up the line to take care of some business. Once I hit that saddle, I’m not gettin’ down to give you a drink. I don’t need a threat or a curse. You want a drink or not?”

Jackson glared, then looked down. “Yeah.”

Tap gave him a couple mouthfuls, then tapped the cork tight. He strapped the ca
nteen on the saddle horn and walked around to the off side of the horse.

Jackson added in a low voice, “Could you jam my hat on my head too?”

Tap scooped up the brown felt hat, brushed the dirt off the hatband, and set it down on Jackson’s head. Then he mounted up, spun Roundhouse several circles to the right, and pulled on the reins. “I meant what I said. If you’re still here when I come back through, I’ll see you get taken into Billings.”

“We cain’t stay like this two or three days.”

“You didn’t leave me any other choice. That maguey rope is goin’ to be the easiest to break when it gets real cold, say about sunup. Save your strength until then. Then yank it just as hard as you can in one quick motion. I’ve never owned a McGee that couldn’t be busted when you tied it hard and fast. If you do get free, build yourself a fire and warm up before you try hikin’ out of these mountains. Too much cold will kill you quicker than the wolves or Indians.”

Tap touched his engraved silver Spanish rowels to Round-house’s flanks and trotted up the creek.

Lord, that’s the second time in two days I’ve been in a situation where there was nothin’ I could do about the matter.

Tap spotted a thin column of smoke coming from the Miller homestead the moment he entered the wide, flat box canyon. From a distance he didn’t know if it was the smo
ldering ruins of the barn or a cook fire. Not knowing who or what to expect, Tap kept his rifle across his lap. The eight-and-a-half-pound Winchester rested heavy on the cold, stiff duckings.