It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own (Code of the West)

Code of the West

series

Book One

It’s Your

Misfortune

and None of

My Own

Stephen Bly

The CODE OF THE WEST Western Series

It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own

One Went to Denver and the Other Went Wrong

Where the Deer and the Antelope Play

Stay Away from That City . . . They Call It Cheyenne

My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand

I'm Off to Montana for to Throw the Hoolihan

For more books by Stephen Bly

and other great western authors

please visit

http://dustytrailbooks.com/

It’s Your Misfortune and None of My Own

Original Copyright © 1994 by Stephen Bly

Published by
Dusty Trail Books
158 Laneda Avenue
Manzanita, Oregon  97130

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publisher, except as provided
by USA copyright law.

Cover design by Stephen George

ISBN-13: 
978-1492882398

ISBN-10:
 
1492882399

First printing 1994

Printed in the United States of America

For
Jim
and
Jan
,

straight-shootin’ frontier friends

1

S
eptember 1882, near the Kaibito River, Arizona Territory.   
.
 

Brown eyes spied out from a sooty, furrowed face a
ppearing between a solid slab of granite and a gray beaver felt hat.

Through his worn duckings, Tap Andrews felt sharp fra
gments of rock dig into his knees. Keeping his attention on the horizon, he slipped five more .44-40 center-fire cartridges from his bullet belt and slid them into the breech of his Winchester ’73. Then he leaned it with care beside him.

The column of dust in the distance rolled toward the rocky outcrop, the only break in the high d
esert floor.

“They’re goin’ to charge us, ain’t they?” a shaky voice called from the lower left.

“Yep,” Tap acknowledged, “I reckon they will.” The dry northern Arizona air tasted bitter, like the yellow and red desert that surrounded him.

“Are they Apaches?”

“Nope.”

“How can you tell?”

“’Cause we’re in Navajo country.”

“We could sure use a couple dozen of them blue-coated cavalry boys.”

Tap tried to dismiss the fear in the man’s voice. “I could sure use a cup of coffee.”

The man in the dark vested suit crawled towards him. “Don’t you think we should concentrate on this side rather than spreading out?”

“Stay where I put you. Shoot straight. Don’t waste bullets,” Tap ordered.

“This is crazy,” one of the other hidden men cried out. “Five of us in these shallow rocks against two dozen mounted sa
vages? We’ll never survive. We ought to run for them mountains.”

“Black Mesa is fifty miles away,” Tap reported. His long legs began to cramp behind the scant boulder. He stretched them out along the ground and then repositioned hi
mself on his knees.

“If that driver hadn’t run those horses to death, we’d still be down there on the Utah road,” a voice roared from under a torn black hat.

“I suppose yer blamin’ me for the crossing being washed out too and us having to ride into this here swarm of mad Navajos?” the driver shouted back. “Look at them. They’re burnin’ my stage. That’s a $1,500 Concord.”

“And I say we try to talk to them,” another man called out. His high-pitched words ran together. “They must have mi
staken us for someone else. I’m sure a few words could clear up this whole matter. Mr. Andrews, do you speak Navajo?”

Tap laid the round barrel of the ’73 across the granite rock in front of him. He took aim at the dust column still one tho
usand yards away. He flipped up the peep sight on the rifle and cranked it up to the top mark that had been filed on the gauge years before.

“Yeah, I can talk a little Navajo. But they aren’t in a talkin’ mood. They want a fight. We ha
ppen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I still say we could—”

“Mister, if you don’t have anything to do, you might want to scratch out a will,
’
cause I’m tellin’ you, these Indians are goin’ to fight. Six days ago some men rode up to a hogan, smoked six Indians out, and shot
’
em all, including four children. These fellas aim to settle that score.”

“But we didn’t do it. That’s a matter for the sheriff or the army.”

Tap took a bead on the lead rider. “They don’t intend to wait around and see if anything gets done. And I don’t rightly blame
’
em.”

“You sidin’ with those murderin’ redskins?”

“So far, only Indians have been murdered. But I assure you, I’ll be tryin’ to shoot them before they shoot me.”

“Say, you sure you ain’t one of them? You’re kind of dark-skinned yourself. Why, you could be an .
 . . ”

“If you’re plannin’ on insultin’ me, you’ll have to call me something worse than an I
ndian,” Tap informed him.

“But we don’t even know who you are and where you come from. What gives you the right to tell us what .
 . .?”

One glance from Tap and the man clammed up.

A puff of smoke in the distance, followed by the sound of lead ricocheting off the boulders down below Tap, then the report of rifle fire echoed off the desert floor.

“What are they tryin’ to do from way back there?” som
eone asked.

“Get us to reveal position,” Tap instructed. “Now, li
sten. I’m going to reduce the odds by one or two, but don’t any of you fire until they ride up out of that draw. Let
’
em keep guessing how many are up here.”

“You can’t hit anything from this distance,” another man shouted.

Several more wild shots slammed off the boulders behind them. The buzzing, ricocheting sound of bouncing lead gave way to eerie quiet.

Tap pulled the hammer of the
’
73 back until the second click. He set the sights on the brown shirt of the lead rider.

Without a wisp of breeze, it seemed as if nature held its breath until the battle began. Tap aimed the peep-hole sight on the man’s chest and squeezed the trigger. The sound blasted in his ears. The di
stant rider tumbled off his saddle and sprawled on the sand. The vibration of the explosion sent a sharp pain through his eardrums and down his right arm.

One of the men behind him whistled. “Good heavens, A
ndrews, you did it. You dropped him.”

Tap watched the next man who broke for the draw. As the whole band charged forward, he draped another warrior on the desert floor. Cocking and repositio
ning the rifle, he reached up and rubbed his still aching ear.

No longer able to hold back for a good shot, the others fired wildly at the charging Indians. Smoke rose from the guns as from a campfire on a cold morning. Lead pierced the desert stillness like ne
edles attacking a pincushion. Horses and men cried out in agony.

The long-range sight was thrown back as Tap fired at cha
rging Indians. The man to the lower left screeched, but there was no way to assist.

A shot from behind forced him to dive for new cover.

They’ve busted through the backside. They must have shot the stage driver.

One warrior rode his paint horse right over the crest of the rocky knoll. Tap rolled to the left and grabbed for his Colt. The startled Navajo swung to the right to take aim, but Tap fired two .44s. The warrior dropped to the rocks.

Tap scrambled to his feet. He grabbed the reins of the empty horse, swinging up into an old McClellan saddle. He charged right at the milling band of Indians. He took two more off their horses before they turned and retreated to the far side of the draw.

Reining up, he returned to the cover of the boulders, secu
ring the Indian mount behind the largest of them. He could hear no more fire from his side. To his surprise, the Indians also ceased shooting.

One of the Navajo warriors held his rifle high above his head and rode boldly to the base of the rocks.

Not knowing if any were still alive to hear him, Tap yelled, “Hold up, boys. He wants to palaver.” He could feel the bitter sting of gunpowder smoke in his eyes.

“In the rocks,” the Indian yelled. “Come out, and let us di
scuss this.”

“We can hear you fine from here,” Tap shouted back.

“We are leaving now,” the Navajo called out.

“That’s mighty nice of you.” Tap shoved more shells into his Colt. He noticed the spokesman wore striped ca
valry trousers.

“Is Yellow Rock dead?”

Tap cast a look at the injured Indian. He labored for breath. “He’s still alive . . . barely.”

“We would like you to put him on his pony and send him down so that we may take him home.”

“Kill him, Andrews,” a weak voice whimpered from among the rocks.

So, someone is alive.

“You want this old boy, you come up unarmed and get him. But you don’t get the horse. I counted coup on Yellow Rock. The horse now belongs to me." Tap wiped the sweat off the back of his dirty neck. Hair rubbed against his collarless cotton shirt.

The warrior turned and rode back.

“What’s happenin’, Andrews? I can’t see
’
em. What’s goin’ on?”

“They’re talkin’ it over.”

“You goin’ to let them hike up here and retrieve that Injun?”

“Yep.”

“But they’re murderers.”

Tap kept his eye on the band of warr
iors on the far side of the draw. He half expected them all to charge again. “There’s dead on both sides, but nobody got murdered today. We were all armed. Besides, when you’re outnumbered, you always let the other guy quit a fight.”

Soon the same Indian, stripped to the waist, hiked up out of the draw to the base of the rocks. “I’m coming up to get Yellow Rock.”

“Keep your hands out in front of you,” Tap instructed. Then he turned to the rocky defense and yelled loud enough for the Indian to hear, “Don’t shoot him, boys. If he dies, we’re all dead. Let him through.”

All the way up the mountain, Tap covered the N
avajo with his rifle. Within moments, the moccasin-booted Navajo stood in front of him. He glanced down at Yellow Rock lying on his stomach, unable to move his arms.

“You are a brave man,” the Indian said in English.

“And so are you.” Tap replied in Navajo.

“It was Yellow Rock’s family who died at the hogan. It was his battle. We have our r
evenge. Now we will go home.”

“You lost several warriors, too,” Tap noted.

“Yes. Too many. You shoot very well with the Vernier tang sight.” He eyed Tap's
’
73. “Don’t be shocked. I have ordered one for my own gun.”

The Navajo hefted the severely wounded man to his shou
lder. “You will not make it to Utah. We will see the pinto and ride out to stop you. There is no place to hide in the desert.”

Tap pointed the rifle at the man’s head. “We’ll make it.”

“Your companions are all dead or dying, and you know it. It will be just you. We could charge up this mountain and kill you now.”

“Go ahead and try it,” Tap retored. “You’ll be the first one to take lead.”

“That’s the problem. It would cost us two or three good men to kill you. We would rather kill you when there is no chance of us catching your bullets.”

“That’s mighty nice of you. I sure do thank ya for thinkin’ of me.”

“You are welcome.” The Indian lumbered down the mountain. He never glanced back until he had joined the others on the far side of the draw. They gathered up their dead and wounded and rode across the desert to the distant hills.

Waiting until they were well out of gunshot range, Tap stuck his hat on the end of his Wi
nchester barrel and raised it slowly into full view.

If they left one behind to take a potshot, this ought to give him a target.

Finally, Tap jammed his hat on his head and stood up from behind the boulders. The Winchester across his arm, he surveyed the rock pile. He found the stage driver and two others dead. Only the man with the deerskin coat was still breathing, although he had a severe wound in the shoulder and another in the leg.

Tap helped the man down to the little clearing next to the paint horse.

“The others? Dead?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t think I’m goin’ to make it either,” the man groaned.

“It doesn’t look good, but the good Lord just might have a surprise for you.”

“I’m ready for that. Prop me up, would ya?”

Tap scooted the man around to lean against a boulder. He stared at the rocks and gasped for breath. Finding a l
abored rhythm, he said, “Me and Jesus settled up a long time ago.”

“You got a wife and kids?"

"No."

"I don't think I got your name.”

“Zach,” he choked. “Zachariah Hatcher from Colorado. You got any water?”

“Sorry.”

“I was on my way to meet my fiancée in Fort Collins. I . . . really need a drink.”

Tap glanced around for any sign of a ca
nteen, but found none.

“Can’t believe I don’t get to see her.”

“Don’t give up yet. We have a pony and some breathin’ space. Maybe we can get you doctored and—”

“Mr. Andrews, I—”

“Tap. Just call me Tap.”

“Tap? Like a hammer?”

“Tap, like in tapadera.” He sat on the desolate rock pile. Smoke and dust caked his throat and made it difficult to swallow. “Tell me about this special lady of yours.”

“Never met her,” Hatcher rasped.

“What?”

“She’s from Kentucky. We’ve been writin’ for over two years.”

“Is she a
Heart-and-Home
woman?”

“No, not the magazine. I knew her brother, and I co
mmenced to write some time back.”