I'm Off to Montana for to Throw the Hoolihan (Code of the West) (23 page)

Tap’s crew sat on saddles closer to the fire, steam rising off their soaked clothing. General Sheridan examined his hat, which now sported only half of an eagle feather. Tap’s left foot was propped up on a saddle. He held a steaming coffee cup in his hand, warming his fingers and face.

“We could use some of that coffee, mister,” one of the bound men hollered.

“You got a cup, or do you want me to jist pour it straight into your mouths?” Odessa growled.

“We ain’t got no cups.”

“Then you’ll have to wait until we’re through with ours. These boys should have rode down to Arizona. It’s pretty warm at this time of year, ain’t it, Tap?”

“I don’t know, Odessa. Arizona’s no place for amateurs. . . . Boys, we got some coffee and beans left. Now you’ll have to share the same plates and cups. Only I need to know if Sugar Dayton and the other hombre rode into the canyon with you, or did they stay home and let you do the dirty work?”

“We ain’t tellin’ you nothin’,” one man shouted.

“Then it will be a long, cold night,” Odessa called back.

Jesse Savage squatted down to inspect Tap’s wound. He was hol
ding a green tin box. “You need a little of this.” He pried open the lid.

“It looks like wagon axle grease.”

“It’s an old Indian remedy. It keeps the wound from getting gangrene.”

“What’s in it?”

“How would I know?” Savage grinned. “I bought it at a pharmacy in Denver. But it works. Burns like a red-hot horseshoe, but it works.”

Tap bit down on one of his water-soaked leather gauntlets as Jesse Savage applied the thick ointment to his calf and r
ewrapped the towel around it. Gasping for breath, Tap dropped the glove. “I hate it when the cure hurts worse than the injury.”

General Sheridan squatted between Tap and Savage. “We’ve got nine men and eight horses accounted for. Five men and four horses are alive.”

“Are you sure we don’t have Dayton?” Lorenzo quizzed.

“I know Dayton,” Savage insisted. “He’s not here.”

“If he didn’t come with the others, maybe he swung around the mountain to flank us,” Tap suggested.

“Which means he and another could be ridin’ across the mesa right about now.” Lorenzo stood up. “You want me to douse the fire?”

“Nope. Build it up. We want to make sure they can see it.” Tap turned to Savage and Sheridan. “Jesse, you and the General help me see these boys get a little closer to the fire. In fact, we can let them have all the fire. We’ll just sit back in the shadows and see who comes to visit.”

Sheridan turned to his brother. “I like the way this man thinks.”

“But we don’t shoot them,” Tap cautioned. “At least, not if we can help it. I aim to keep that promise I made Ezra.”

Within minutes the five bound men had been dragged to the fire, filled with a few sips of steaming coffee, and then gagged. Some sat and stared at the flames. Others lay down, allowing the heat to dry out their soaked clothes.

Expecting riders from the east, Tap and Lorenzo hid in a short clump of cedars to the south. The Crow brothers waited in the lava rocks on the north. Clouds started to blow east. A cold, starlit night unfolded. Even though they were gloved, Lorenzo blew into his cupped hands. “This is what I can’t figure—we won the battle, and we’re out here freezin’. They lost, and they’re curled up asleep next to the fire.”

“Four of ’em are dead.”

“That’s a good point,” Lorenzo conceded.

The distant crackle of the fire and soft moan of the wind in the trees were the only sounds for several minutes.

“Tap, what do you reckon ol’ Savage and Sheridan are talkin’ about?”

“About how nice it would feel to be back in their own t
epees scooched up to the missus.”

“You think so?”

“There ain’t all that much difference between whites and Indians,” Tap observed.

Both men stared at the distant fire. Lorenzo coughed. Tap held his finger to his lips. Both turned as they heard a steady muted sound out on the mesa. Tap strained to see in the starlit, moonless dar
kness.
It’s too muddy for sticks to break or hooves to rattle the rocks.
He heard the click of Lorenzo’s revolver cock. He pulled his own gun from the still slightly wet Mexican loop holster.

Two men rode horses into the clearing between their pos
ition and that of Sheridan and Savage. Tap could see the red glow of a quirley. He thought he heard the men mumble something. The one with the cigarette was waving his arms, and the other turned toward the Indian brothers.

Come on, Dayton .
 . . come on. Circle around the fire and check out your buddies before you hello your way in. Come on. This is mighty nice of you.

The rider coming their way hid in the dark trees and rode within several feet of them. He stopped, turned his horse t
oward the fire, and stood in the stirrups. Then he leaned forward as seemed to survey the scene.

Lorenzo lunged forward in the night and grabbed the man’s vest, jerking the startled rider out of the saddle.

“What the—”

The barrel of Tap’s Colt creased the man’s hat before he hit the mud. He didn’t move. Tap grabbed the reins of the pra
ncing horse while Lorenzo kept his gun pointed at the downed man. Both stared in the direction of the Indians. Finally they heard a soft, lonely magpie cry.

“That’s their signal,” Tap said.

Lorenzo stuck two fingers between his lips and let out a piercing whistle that woke up the men around the fire. Jesse Savage came out of the shadows leading a horse with a man lying coldcocked across the saddle. General Sheridan followed.

Tap spoke to the Indians. “Mighty nice of these guys to split up like that.”

“It wasn’t much of a challenge.” Savage grinned.

“Which one is Dayton?” Tap asked.

“Yours,” Savage reported.

All the bound men were sitting up straight around the fire.

“Looky here, boys,” Lorenzo chided. “The king of the Yellow Sash outfit, Sugar Dayton, has come to rescue you. Ain’t that nice of him and this other fella? I’m sure you’ll want to thank ’em, whenever they wake up. They seem to be takin’ a nap right now.”

They tied up the two unconscious men and pulled down the gags on the other five. Then they tossed more wood on the fire and stretched out their bedrolls. Tap took the first guard duty. A couple hours later, General Sheridan took the second.

Tap had barely fallen asleep under the now cloudless, cold night sky when the stocky Indian tapped his shoulder. Tap peered into the wide brown face topped with the silk hat.

“A wagon’s coming across the prairie.”

Tap sat up and jammed on his hat. The rattle of a sideboard and the creak of poorly greased wheels filtered across the mesa.

Sheridan held up his right index finger. “One horse.”

“Peter? The boy on the mesa this afternoon?”

“Perhaps.”

“Who else would bring a wagon out here? Wake up your brother and Lorenzo. I’ll build up the fire. I don’t want him to miss us.”

“We’ll hide back in the trees. Perhaps you are wrong.”

Tap stuffed sticks of mostly dry wood on the embers of the fire.

Lorenzo rubbed his eyes and pulled on his hat and boots. “You figure it’s young Miller?”

“We’ll soon find out.”

They couldn’t see the wagon yet, but it was getting closer. Tap stood between the fire and the approaching wagon.

“You goin’ to strut around in plain sight?” Lorenzo questioned.

The wagon stopped out of the light of the fire.

“Peter, is that you?”

“Yeah. Is that you, Mr. Andrews?”

“Drive it on in, son. Ever’thing’s fine. We caught ’em all.”

The big draft horse plodded into view pulling the farm wagon and a blanket-wrapped Peter Miller.

“Come on down and warm up,” Tap offered.

Peter jumped to the ground. He looked a little taller than Tap r
emembered.

“Father died in Mama’s arms,” P
eter sobbed.

“Did they get to talk?”

“For a few minutes.”

"I hurt all over for you. I’m glad he got to see your mama. Gettin’ your daddy home to her was the best gift you could have given them. I’m proud of you.”

Peter motioned to the four men lying with saddle blankets over their heads. “Are they dead?”

“Yep.”

“Did you kill ’em?”

“Nope. They drowned.”

“Drowned?”

“We had a little flash flood in the canyon.”

“Is Dayton dead?”

Tap stared at the flames. "No, son. Ol’ Sugar ran into a pistol ba
rrel and is sleepin’ kind of peaceful.”

“Where?”

“The second man over there.”

Savage and Sheridan stole back toward the fire.

Peter Miller stalked up to Dayton and kicked his boots. “Wake up,” he hollered.

Sugar Dayton blinked and squinted at Peter.

“You killed my papa,” Peter screamed.

Dayton searched the flickering shadows until he spied Tap. “Get this kid away from me.”

“You killed my father, and he didn’t even have a gun,” Peter cried.

“I should’ve shot you too,” Dayton growled. He turned to Tap. “Are you Andrews? I said, get this kid away from me.”

“You murdered the boy’s father right in front of his eyes. The only reason I didn’t shoot you,” Tap replied, “is because I promised Ezra Miller I wouldn’t. It’s beyond my wisdom to know why God in heaven allows some worthless dung pile like you to stay alive and a good man like Peter’s father to die. But I don’t argue with the Almighty. So don’t be tellin’ me what I should and shouldn’t do.”

“Give me a gun,” Peter cried out.

“Why?”

“I’m going to kill him.”

“I promised your daddy that—”

“I didn’t promise him,” Peter yelled. “Give me a gun.” The young boy’s tear-filled eyes steadied on Savage and Sher
idan. “Indians? Are they the ones with tepees at the ranch?”

“They’re friends of mine.”

“Give me a gun.”

“Get this kid away from me,” Dayton hollered.

Tap pulled out his Colt .44 revolver and handed it, grip first, to the boy.

“Mister, you cain’t let that boy shoot me.”

“Sure I can.”

“But I’m unarmed.”

“So was his father.”

The bound man pulled frantic jerks at the leather straps that lashed his hands and feet.

Peter Miller frowned at the gun in his hand. “How does it work?”

“Pull back that hammer all the way, point it at what you want to hit, and squeeze the trigger.”

“I don’t like this game,” Sugar Dayton screamed. “You got to take me to jail. I get a fair trial. It’s my right.”

Tap turned to Lorenzo. “Did you ever hear of anyone who wanted to go to jail so bad?”

Peter used both hands and pulled back the trigger until it clicked. Then he turned to the bound man.

“He’s goin’ to kill me,” Dayton yelled.

“Where do I aim?” Peter asked.

“If you shoot him in the head, he’ll be dead the minute you pull the trigger. If you shoot him in the gut, he could live in agony for a day or two before he died.”

Peter pointed the gun toward the man’s midsection.

“Wait,” Dayton screamed. “I’ve got money. Stop him, A
ndrews. I’ll tell you where there’s money, lots of it.”

“How much money?”

“Two thousand dollars from the Billings bank job. How about it?”

“That’s not enough.”

“Wait. I’ve got more. You can have it all. Maybe five thousand all together. Up at the headquarters. In a tin box behind the loose boards next to the stove. Now call him off.”

“Dayton, that’s kind of you to tell us where the money is, but if Peter shoots you or not, it will be his own decision.”

“You cain’t do this. You’ve got to stop this. This is cold-blooded murder.”

“You saying you’re against murder?”

“When I’m the one gettin’ murdered, I am.”

Peter lifted the gun and again pointed it toward the bound man.

“He is right about one thing, Peter. It is murder to shoot an unarmed, bound man.”

“I don’t care,” Peter sniffled. “He killed my father.”

“Before you pull that trigger, let me tell you what your father told me. Our last conversation he said for me to tell this man he forgave him.”

“He said that?” Peter gasped.

“Yep. Right there in the back of your wagon. He didn’t want to go meet his Maker with an unforgiving heart. I’ve been shot half a dozen times, including today, and never in my life have I forgiven the man or woman who did it. I just don’t have it in me. Your father was quite a man.”

“I’m going to kill him anyway.”