I'm Off to Montana for to Throw the Hoolihan (Code of the West) (22 page)

Jesse Savage stared at Tap with unblinking dark eyes.

“We’ll get ’em to chase us down the canyon and set an a
mbush at the other end,” Tap announced.

“How do we know they’ll all follow?” Lorenzo shouted above the roar of gunfire and a shower of granite chips.

“Because we look like easy pickin’s. Ever’one wants to be in on a massacre.”

“There are two problems with such a deception,” Jesse Sa
vage announced. “It is going to rain, and that canyon will be dangerous.” A spray of granite chips blasted Savage’s face. He dove to the ground.

“This isn’t exactly a safe place.” Tap rose up and fired two shots toward the woods.

“The other problem is we have to make it to the horses,” Savage muttered from flat on the dirt.

“I’ll go for the horses,” Sheridan said. “It’s my fault we’re in this.”

“You can’t bring them back here,” Tap argued. “We’ll all have to make a run for it.”

“I ain’t movin’ too good on this bum leg,” Odessa informed them.

Tap barked orders. “Jesse, you and the General go for the horses. Mount up and give us some cover. Then we’ll catch up with you. Lorenzo, you take the left side. I’ll take the right.”

Savage glanced at his brother, and both men nodded. “When do we run?”

“Now!”

Tap and Odessa peeked out from behind the rocks and sent a barrage of 200-grain lead bullets toward the Ye
llow Sash gang’s wooded position. After a dozen shots, Tap looked back. The Indians had made it to the horses.

With the others safely out of range, Tap signalled Lorenzo to halt. Both men slumped back behind the rocks and crammed more ca
rtridges into their breech-loading guns. Tap scooped up several brass casings from the dirt and shoved them into his coat pocket.

“What if them Indians just ride off and leave us here?” Lorenzo called out. “I don’t hear them shootin’.”

“They’re edgin’ to a closer position.”

“You got a lot of confidence in them.”

“We don’t have any choice, do we?”

“I reckon.”

All conversation was drowned out by the deafening blast of the 50-caliber Sharps, just behind them to the east.

“Come on, partner, that’s our cue. Give me your arm,” Tap called out.

Lorenzo hung on to Tap’s shoulder as they crouched low and ran back across the trail toward the trees. Bullets buzzed like bees around them, but Tap never looked back. He dove for cover, then turned back to Odessa. “You take any lead, partner?”

“Nope? And you?”

“Not yet.”

Odessa sprawled on his back and caught his breath. General Sheridan and Jesse Savage kept the barrage g
oing.

“We’re too old for this, Tapadera, bein’ married men and all.”

“You mean, we got too much to lose?”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.” Lorenzo gazed up at the clouds. “Is that drops of sweat, or is it beginning to sprinkle?”

“We better get to that canyon. Here comes the pride of the Crow Nation. Are you ready to mount?”

“Let’s get out of here.” Lorenzo stood and waited as the horses were led up to them.

Tap shoved Lorenzo into his saddle. Then he mounted Roundhouse from the off side and spun him three times to the right.

“You mount Indian-style?” Sheridan asked.

“It’s the only way he allows it.”

“You want to sell that horse?”

“Yep.”

“What do you want in trade?”

“I hate to interrupt you two in the middle of a big business deal,” Odessa shouted, “but we’re about to get ourselves killed.”

Jesse Savage grabbed the lead position, followed by Lorenzo Odessa, General Sheridan, and then Tap Andrews. The sca
ttered pines offered good cover from the Yellow Sash bunch. Tap could hear the now-mounted pursuers thundering after them.

“We’ll be exposing ourselves when we ride at the edge of the lake and the canyon wall,” Lorenzo called back.

“I’ll cover you three,” Tap hollered. “Then one of you drop back and cover for me.”

“Are we still trying to take them all alive?” Sheridan called out.

“At the moment, we’re just trying to get out of here alive ourselves. Now go on!”

While raindrops splashed the waters of the shallow lake, Tap fired round after round from the saddle. All three ahead of him found the canyon entrance. When he heard the .50-caliber Sharps echo like a small cannon out of the rock, he spurred Roundhouse out from b
ehind the trees.

Halfway to the canyon entrance Tap felt something stab him like a knife in the calf of his left leg. He continued to spur Roundhouse but glanced down to see blood drip into the water.

I don’t know if it’s me or Roundy that’s losin’ blood.

“Come on, boy, we’re goin’ to make it. Don’t slow down on me.”

The big gray gelding plowed through the water and reached the rocks where General Sheridan fired his 50-caliber bullets. Tap signaled for him to go on down the canyon. In the protection of the natural rock shield at the mouth of the narrow, twisting canyon, Tap examined his wound. Taking off his red bandanna, he shoved it up his canvas ducking pants leg to stop the blood that had started to puddle up in his boot.

He peered over the rocks and fired two shots at the purs
uers, who were now starting down the submerged gravel ledge at the edge of the canyon wall.

Tap bent to the left and ran his now-ungloved left hand along the fender of the saddle until he found a bullet hole in the leather.

“Where are you hit, Roundy? Maybe me and the saddle slowed that bullet down a little.”

He drew a bead on the lead rider pursuing them and then reme
mbered his promise to Ezra Miller. “Mister, you’ll get to live another day.” Tap shot into the rock cliff next to the man. The horse jumped to the left into the deeper water of the little lake.

Bending down again, Tap eased his hand along Roun
dhouse’s left side until his middle finger found blood oozing from the horse’s flank. Keeping his eye on the trail where the Yellow Sash gang was cautiously approaching, he stuck his finger into the bullet hole in the horse. Tap’s finger hit the still-warm lead bullet about three-quarters of an inch into the horse’s flesh.

“Hang on, boy.”

Tap spun the gelding to the left in the two-foot-deep water and jammed another finger into the bullet hole. Clutching the lead between his fingers, he yanked the bullet out, dropping it into the water.

Roundhouse bucked hard, exposing Tap’s position. Se
veral shots rang out around him. With his blood-smeared left hand, he jerked out his shirttail and ripped off a six-inch piece. Then he bent low and poked some of the cloth into the horse’s bullet hole and pushed the leather fender against the wound to hold the cloth in place.

“Let’s get out of here, Roundy. It’s really starting to rain.”

The water in the three-foot-wide canyon was rising with every turn in the trail. Occasional bullets ricocheted toward him, but he was staying out of sight of his attackers.

Soon water lapped at the heels of his boots. Rain soaked his coat and the tops of his duckings. He began to exper
ience symptoms of shock from the bullet wound. Sweat burst out on his forehead, even as the hard-driving rain diluted it and washed it away.

Lord, this canyon is going to flood. It’s just a matter of when. I’d rather be out of here before it does. I figure that’s exactly what old Noah told You too.

“Come on’, Roundy, you can do it. Stretch those long, old legs of yours. . . . Come on, boy, heyaah!”

Tap spurred repeatedly as the gelding slipped, slid, and stumbled through the deep water on the trail. He could not see any of the ot
hers up ahead. Continuing the twisting descent, Tap shoved his rifle back into the scabbard and pulled his Colt revolver. When a bullet ricocheted in the rocks high above his head, he turned and squeezed off a round, even though no one was in sight.

Tap’s boots were almost submerged in the water, and Roun
dhouse sloshed along with his head up and his ears back. Even though Tap figured it wasn’t much past midafternoon, the little bit of sky above the steep canyon walls was so dark he could see no more than twenty yards ahead.

He wiped his face with the sleeve of the rain-soaked ca
nvas jacket and finally shoved his revolver back into his holster. The rain saturated his duckings and was running down his leg, flooding his wound, causing it to burn like a succession of yellow jacket stings.

The canyon still towered above and in front of them, see
ming to stretch longer than the ascent. Tap fought the urge to stop and bandage his leg with a dry sack he knew was in his saddlebags.

I don’t need to be chasin’ these boys, and I don’t need them chasin’ me. I don’t need to be shot. And I sure don’t need to drown in this godforsaken canyon.

Okay, You haven’t forsaken it. But surely it doesn’t occupy the central part of Your mind very often. Except for right now. I hope.

The rising water slowed Roundhouse down to a fast walk. Tap knew if the water raised another foot, the horse would have to swim.

The water is coming up slower than I thought it would. The Indians said it comes down like a wall. If a wall of water flushes through here now, there’s no way to survive. It would be like that old Egyptian army caught in the Red Sea. I’m sure not Moses or a child of Abraham. But I surely would like to make it to the other side.

Ahead in the narrow, shadowy gorge, Tap thought he could see the waterfall that marked the end of the canyon. With his boots filled with water, he spurred the frightened gelding. He jumped and swam as rocks and boulders tu
mbled under the water and beneath his hooves. A deafening roar echoed down the canyon behind him. The wall of water must be coming.

Lord, I know I ought to be prayin’ for the men back there too. But I just don’t know what to say. I’m not as full of grace and wisdom as Ezra Miller. Thy will be done.

The water broke out of the canyon with such force it shoved Tap and Roundhouse into the backside of the wate
rfall. It dropped rocks and debris as well as water. Tap leaned over and grasped Roundhouse’s neck as they got drenched in the cascade.

The gray gelding hit the rocky creek on the other side of the waterfall, swimming toward shore. Tap lay across the saddle horn holding the horse’s neck. When they finally splashed into shallow water, Tap reined up to glance back at the canyon e
ntrance.

He heard the roar of the Sharps above the thunder of the water. General Sheridan, Savage, and Odessa signaled him from a bluff about a quarter of a mile to the east. He spurred the reluctant Roundhouse until he reached them.

“You take a bullet?” Odessa pointed at his blood-soaked pant leg.

“Me and Roundy both. I pulled the bullet out of him, but we both lost some blood.”

“We thought you’d drown. How did you make it out of there?” Savage questioned.

“We held our breath and prayed,” Tap replied.

“The horse is worth less if he is shot,” Sheridan announced.

“I wouldn’t sell ol’ Roundy now for a thousand dollars in gold.” Tap handed the reins to Lorenzo and slipped to the ground, keeping his weight off his left leg.

“Here it comes,” Jesse Savage shouted above the roar of water in the canyon.

Boulders the size of milk buckets, along with horses and outlaws, washed out with a twelve-foot wall of water that blasted through the waterfall. An instant flood over ever
ything below the cliff.

A good-sized lake formed at the canyon e
ntrance. All four men stared at the sight in silence. Within minutes the water coming out of the canyon receded to a depth of about five feet. The lake began to drain back into the creekbed.

“Do we go out there and count bodies?” Lorenzo asked.

“Well, we didn’t shoot ’em,” Tap commented. “They can’t blame us or the Crow Nation for this. But we better haul in the bodies to prove that point.”

“I think some are alive,” General Sheridan reported.

Tap took out his boot knife and sliced his pant leg up to his knee. Then he pulled the dry cotton sack out of his saddlebags and tied it around his calf. The rain rolled off the back brim of his felt hat onto an already soaked coat.

“You up to this?” Lorenzo called out.

Tap grabbed the saddle horn with two hands, pulled himself halfway up the side of the prancing horse, and then shoved his right foot into the stirrup and yanked his left leg over the saddle.

“You ain’t in any shape to mount and dismount,” Lorenzo ca
utioned.

“Neither are you, Odessa. You go round up any horses left alive and put the wounded ones down. We’ll pull saddles later. Me and the boys will check on the men.”

It stopped raining right before dark. By then they had a roaring fire blazing on top of the bluff at the northern edge of Cedar Mesa. Laid out under the cedars, with saddle blankets covering their heads, were four dead members of the Yellow Sash gang. Five other water-soaked men sat in the mud, tied back to back, with the flames of the fire revealing tired and dejected faces.