I'm Off to Montana for to Throw the Hoolihan (Code of the West) (4 page)

“No foolin’?”

“Actually I just woke up. This is the most comfortable bed in the entire world.”

“Darlin’, I’m going to ride out to look for Lorenzo.”

“You think he’s in trouble?”

“I don’t know what to think. He’s not the type to get drunk and forget to come home. Angelita will stir up some breakfast for you and help you get out to the privy and all.”

“I might be as big as a smokehouse, but I can still stroll out to the privy on my own. How does our house smell this mor
ning?”

“Either it smells a little better, or I’m gettin’ used to it.”

“When will you be back?”

“Around noon.”

“You promise?”

“Yep. And do you promise not to have baby while I’m gone?”

“Dr. Haffner said not ’til the first of November.”

“Doctors have been wrong.”

“Let’s hope so. If your son grows any bigger in there, you’ll have to buy him a horse instead of a pony.”

Tap leaned over the bed and kissed her slightly chapped lips. “Bye, darlin’.”

“I love you, Mr. Andrews.”

“And I love both of you!”

Roundhouse bucked twice as they left the yard and a couple more times when Tap stopped to close the yard gate. After that the gray gelding decided to settle down and allow Tap to take charge. The thin clouds of the previous day had disappeared and left a faint blue autumn sky. It wasn’t freezing, but the cool air carried a hint frosty weather wasn’t too far away.

This was Tap’s third trip to the Slash-Bar-4. A month ea
rlier he and Stack Lowery had spent three days on a quick ride around. Then he and Lorenzo had brought up the 500 head of cattle from Pine Bluffs, but Tap had only stayed the night.

Most of the 50,000-acre ranch remained unexplored. Tap knew someday he would know every creek, dry wash, draw, and coulee. He knew the day would come when the bou
lders, sage, and chaparral would read like a familiar map. He knew in years to come, he would be able to drop the reins on Roundhouse’s neck and tell him to head to the barn, then go to sleep in the saddle, and wake up at home.

All of that would happen someday.

But Tap was well aware this was not that day.

For both horse and rider it was unfamiliar territory.

If Lorenzo’s in trouble out there, it could take a week to find him.  If he was on foot, he’d build a signal fire or something. ’Course a lot of this ranch doesn’t have anything to burn. If he just lost his mount, he’d walk back to the ranch in half a day or so. If he got shot, well, he’s dead by now.

Four miles east of the headquarters, he cut across the trail of an unshod horse heading south toward the river. “Looks as if some Crow took a shortcut across the ranch to hunt up in the mountains. But I don’t know why he couldn’t hunt on his side of the river.”

He stood in his tapadera-covered stirrups and gaped toward the river. The dry grass and sage were no more than a foot tall for miles.

“Well, partner,” he drawled to Roundhouse, “there’s no po
nies between us and the Yellowstone. The one that came by here must be back on the reservation. Sort of makes me curious about what he was huntin’ up there. Pronghorns? Or longhorns?”

Tap followed the Indian’s tracks for several miles up into the Bull Mountains. He was surprised to find a couple dozen head of Slash-Bar-4 cattle had grazed that far from the hea
dquarters. Working the brush, Tap herded them up and pushed them back down into the open prairie.

“You girls go on home,” he shouted. “I don’t know how you got up here without being driven. Go on. Heyaah! You stay out in the open, and I’ll pick you up on the way back.”

If someone was drivin’ off our cows already, then maybe Lorenzo did ride up here. But I don’t think one Indian would drive off a dozen head.

At the base of a limestone bluff, Tap spotted the remnants of a campfire. He slipped down out of the saddle for an inspe
ction.

It’s a day or two old. Indian fire.  He carried an antelope over to the rock and dressed him out. The coyotes finished off ever’thin’ but the hooves. This is ranch land, but as long as they don’t start butcherin’ beef, there’s not much for me to say. Maybe Lorenzo came upon him sudden like and .
 . . but I don’t see any shoed horseprints.

Tap circled the limestone bluff and tried to find Lorenzo’s sign. But the only prints he saw were from the Indian.

“I told Mama we’d be back by noon. Could be Lorenzo is home by now anyway. Let’s ride up to those cedars on the mesa, then cut back, pick up the cows, and go home. We might not make it by 12:00, but we’ll be out on the slope where she can see us if she’s worried.”

The mesa was mostly grass and sage, with scrub cedars spread wide apart. Tap stood in the stirrups and surveyed the area. There was nothing but more hills and mountains to the north and sloping prairie to the south. He was ready to turn back toward the headqua
rters when he spotted two blackbirds diving at and harassing a raven.

“You like dead meat, big boy. Just exactly where is your di
nner those blackbirds don’t want you to have?”

The raven dipped in the sky toward a cluster of ten-foot c
edars. He fled the attack of the birds one-fourth its size. Tap rode straight to the cedars and caught a whiff of the dead horse before he reached the carcass.

That’s Lorenzo’s horse, at least what’s left of it. Shot in the neck. He’s been threatenin’ to shoot it, but you don’t shoot your own horse in the neck. Maybe between the eyes, if you have to put him down. No saddle. No brass casings where Lorenzo fired back. Nothing.

Tap rode in a wider circle around the dead animal until he cut a trail going north.
Draft horses? Someone’s ridin’ some big boys out here. They snuck up and shot Lorenzo’s horse while ridin’ draft horses?

He spent the next hour searching the mesa for any trace of Lorenzo Odessa. Then he turned back to the large prints of the draft animals. He followed them into the mountains. Tap reined up and glanced back down the slope.

I told Pepper I’d be home around noon. She’ll be worried. But Lorenzo’s on foot.  I don’t reckon he’s dead, or I’d have found the body. Maybe he’s hikin’ back to the ranch. Either that or he rode off on the draft horse. But where are these tracks leadin’?

She’ll understand. A man’s got to look after his friends.

Tap rode Roundhouse three steps and then turned around.

And a man’s got to take care of his family. What if she’s hurtin’? What if it’s her time? Lord, this isn’t a good bind to be in either way.

Tap rubbed the back of his neck and sta
red down at the saddle horn. “Come on, Andrews, you’ve got to do one or the other.”

Finally he spurred Roundhouse back down the slope of the mountains toward where he had driven the cattle.

“Lorenzo,” Tap lectured to the wind, “if you’re dead, I can’t help you much. If you’re alive, you went off with those draft horses. I assume you can hang on until I catch up. And if you’re hikin’ home, I surely hope you’re out on the slope so I can spot you.”

By midafternoon he turned the cows out and rode up to the headquarters. Angelita met him at the gate.

“You’re late,” she called out.

“You could see me comin’ in, couldn’t you?”

“Yes.” Angelita, wrapped in coat and knit hat, opened the gate, waited for Tap to ride into the yard, and then closed it. “Did you find Mr. Odessa?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

Tap leaned down and lifted Angelita up on the horse b
ehind him. “Come on, let’s go see Mama so I only have to tell this story once.”

Angelita washed the supper dishes while Pepper lounged on a pi
llow-lined wooden chair beside the table. Tap stuffed some biscuits and a small tin of ground coffee into an empty flour sack.

“You should have kept on Lorenzo’s trail. But I’m really glad you came back,” Pepper admitted.

“Darlin’, I don’t like breakin’ promises to you. Besides, I didn’t have a bedroll or grub bag. I had hopes he’d be hoofin’ it back this way.”

“You think you’ll be gone more than one night?” Pepper asked.

“If I leave at daybreak, I can get to the mesa before noon. The best I figure is catching up with them by tomorrow night. Even if ever’thing’s all right, I can’t be back before two, maybe three days. This is a big ranch. Are you two going to be okay here?”

She spoke softly. “I think so.”

“The cows can take care of themselves, and Angelita can feed the horses. I’m taking Lorenzo’s roan horse for him to ride back on.”

“Are you sure he’ll be in any condition to ride?”

“I’m bringin’ him home one way or another. But I’m countin’ on him bein’ all right. I never heard of killers ridin’ big old draft horses.”

Pepper began to giggle.

“What’s the matter?” Tap quizzed. “You sure been laughin’ a lot lately.”

“Either laughing or crying.”

“So what is it this time?”

"I believe one of the reasons we moved to Montana was to get a fresh start in a quiet and peaceful place,” she snic
kered. “We didn’t even get ten minutes of peace.”

“Well, it’s quiet out here.”

“And I have a very comfortable bed.”

“And a house that smells like a stall.”

“It’s getting better. Besides, me and the Lord talked that all out this morning.”

“Oh? What did He say?”

“He said if it was good enough for the baby Jesus, it’s good enough for Lil’ Tap.”

“Can’t argue with Him on that, can we? I’ll pull out early and let you two sleep. I promise to be back within two or three days or send word as to what’s going on. And I do keep my promises.”

Pepper pulled him close. “I know it, cowboy. That’s what keeps me sane.”

The clouds were hanging low and heavy by the time Tap reached the remains of Lorenzo’s horse the next day. He fi
gured it was before noon but couldn’t gauge by the sun. Circling the carcass a couple of times, he spied the prints of the big draft horses and followed the trail northward.

The trees never got very thick or tall where he crested the hills and descended into a small valley. He walked the horses down the grade, allowing them to stop and graze wherever there were a few clumps of grass. The huge prints were easy to follow, although the weight of the animals made it impossible to guess whether either one carried more than one rider.

He remounted and continued the ride. Where the trees began to thin, a steep, walled canyon stretched to the north. He came to the stream, and the draft horse tracks turned north toward the distant canyon. Daylight faded as evening came on. The heavy clouds lost some of their moisture. It was more like a cold mist—a heavy, wet, dripping fog—than a rain.

Lord, a good rain could take this track out. That would mean ridin’ up this little valley for nothin’. But no one’s going to stra
ddle a draft horse for more than a day. It would bust ’em in two. There’s got to be a camp or a shack or somethin’ in that canyon.

The drizzling rain let up about dark. Tap stopped near the still-dry creekbed and made a fire, hovering over it like a chuck-wagon cook until he finally dried out a little. He broke a pine knot out of a deca
ying log. Once he had the pitch blazing, he grabbed it by the stem, kicked out his fire, and led the two horses along as he followed the draft horse trail by torchlight.

Although he couldn’t see more than five feet in front of him, Tap could tell the brushy valley had opened up to a meadow south of the canyon entrance. It looked fairly level, wide, and totally black.

“It’s gettin’ so dark I can’t tell what we’re ridin’ through,” he mumbled at the slowly plodding horses. “Maybe it’s time to call it a night.”

Tap tied Roundhouse and Peanut to a bull pine and hiked down near the creekbed. The pine knot had been reduced to a bright red glow. Jamming the handle into a crevice b
etween two large rocks, he left it and groped his way into the brush, feeling for firewood.

This is mighty wet, but maybe it will puff up and make a flame. Providin’ that ember lasts a little longer.

It didn’t.

A rifle shot shattered the pine knot, throwing sparks for several feet. Six more shots followed.

Two pistols and a carbine most likely. Maybe three pistols.

Lying flat on the rocks near the creekbed, Tap clutched his Colt .44. He dragged himself through mud puddles and jagged boulders toward what he hoped was the horses. In the di
stance he heard the shouts of several men.

Reaching Roundhouse, Tap pulled his ’73 Winchester from the scabbard and slowly checked the lever. Hunkered in the mud, he leaned against the trunk of a tree and pointed the rifle in the general direction of the voices.

Come on, boys, show your hand. You do want to know if you had any success, don’t ya?

“Did you get him, Cow Town?”

Cow Town? Are these the same bunch as on the trail yesterday? Since when do cowhands start bushwhackin’ strangers?