It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own (Code of the West) (12 page)

Tap knew he could drop both men before they even had a chance to return fire.

That would leave it three to one. Think like Hatcher. You’re not John Wesley Hardin. And you’re not John Wesley.

“Mister, there isn’t one chance in a thousand of any of you five gettin’ the drop on me. Wiley, is that you on the blue roan?”

The young man sat straight up and pushed his hat back. “Who’s calling me out?”

“Tap .
 . . eh, Tap Hatcher from down on the Triple Creek Ranch.”

“Tap? What in tarnation are you doin’ across the state line?”

“Is the mouthy one with you the boss?”

“Eh .
 . . this is Fightin’ Ed Casey. He owns the outfit.”

“Tell him to shove the rifle back in the scabbard, and let’s talk this out. No reason for men to die today.”

“How do we know we can trust you, Hatcher?” Casey yelled.

“I don’t trust you for a minute, but I’ll trust Wiley. Send him up, and let me give him a message.”

“How do I know you won’t kill him?” Casey shouted.

“How do you know I won’t shoot you right now?” Tap countered. “If Wiley doesn’t trust me, he doesn’t have to come up.”

The two men said something to each other. Then Wiley rode straight up to him.

“Tap, you about got yourself shot.”

“Wiley, I hate to mention how long I had you in this peep sight before I figured out who it was. Now, listen, tell good old Fightin’ Ed that I found a longhorn bull with an old Rafter R brand, but I couldn’t get him talked into goin’ home. But I rounded up his family and drove them down here. I’m just bein’ neighborly tryin’ to help you boys out. Tell him I’m not drivin’ them off. I’m bringin’ them home.”

“That ain’t the problem, Tap,” Wiley replied. “Fightin’ Ed is convinced you’re workin’ for them Boston bankers.”

“What?”

“We don’t have a longhorn on this whole ranch anymore. Those aren’t our cattle.”

“But the Rafter R on the bull?”

“About five years ago this ranch was owned by an old Scotsman by the name of McGregor. He refused to sell out to the Boston bank folks, who wanted to search for copper over in those low mountains. But rather than make him a good o
ffer, they had a Denver man sucker him into buyin’ two hundred choice longhorns.

"To make it short, those bovines was infected with Texas fever, and the bank folks knowed it. Within two years the old man lost all his stock except for them longhorns. The ranch went up for sale on the auction block. The bank figured no cattl
eman would want to take it over, so they made a low offer figurin’ to get it fer nothin’. But they got outbid by Fightin’ Ed.

"Fightin' Ed comes in, sold off all the longhorns, and lets it stand empty through a hard winter. After that he restocked with polled Herefords. Now he gets plumb ag
itated if he finds any strangers on the ranch ’cause he figures it’s that Boston bank group tryin’ to clean him out like they did McGregor.”

“So these must be old stock from years ago,” Tap offered.

“I reckon so. Must be others up in the Medicine Bows too, but no one wants to mix them in with their own. ’Course, if a man didn’t have any cattle at all, he could take ’em and raise ’em. They taste just fine, you know.”

“Go explain my situation to Fightin’ Ed there, and I’ll push them right back into my place. I can always eat ’em for di
nner. I never thought bein’ a good neighbor would get a man in such trouble.”

Wiley glanced back at Ed Casey. “Tap, I would never quit a brand before fall roundup, but come next spring if you’re lookin’ for a hand, let me know. I like workin’ cattle, but firin’ shots at every stranger who rides on the ranch jist ain’t my style.”

“I can’t promise that I can afford any hands. But your name’s on the top of my list.”

The Rafter R cowboy rode back to Casey, and they had a long talk. All of a sudden, Tap saw the ranch owner pull out his rifle and point the barrel in his direction. He ducked b
ehind the pine just as a shot rang out and splinters flew from the dead pine.

“Hatcher, that Triple Creek Ranch ought to be mine, and you know it.”

Tap stooped behind the buckskin pine and leveled his rifle at Casey. “Wiley, get him out of here, or he’s dead. Believe me now, he’s a dead man. I’ll have these cows off the ranch in thirty minutes, but not with you standin’ around takin’ pot shots. Get him home. I don’t plan on waitin’ much longer.”

“Hatcher, you cross that state line again, for any re
ason, I’ll shoot you on sight. You hear me?”

Tap never took the sight off Casey until he and the others retreated past the clump of trees on down the slope. Wor
king quickly, he caught up to Brownie, rounded up the cattle, and drove them back to the Colorado state line.

Other cattle down in those hills? Maybe I’ll just go to rai
sing longhorns. But what in the world did Zachariah Hatcher do to make Casey so mad? Obviously they never met. No matter how big the outfit, a guy always wants more land.

He had just crossed over into Triple Creek country when the sun sank and a cold wind blew down from the northwest. He wanted to make it to the ranch by dark, but it was now obvious that would be impossible. He reached a big bend in a stream about dark and abandoned the cattle to the grass next to the water.

“Brownie, I can’t believe I came out here without my bedroll. It’ll be a slim camp tonight.”

He pulled the saddle and tack off the horse, stacking each item back in the cottonwoods. Then he led Brownie out near the stream, watered and hobbled him. After scratching the tall horse’s cheek and rubbing his neck, he turned and hiked back to the trees.

A cold drop or two of rain stung his face as he gathered up dead wood for a fire. By the time he had a blaze going, the rain pelted his yellow slicker like buckshot falling from the sky. Sitting cross-legged on his saddle next to the fire, he propped his saddle blanket across his lap. He turned up his collar and screwed his hat, already running water, down tight. With his back to the storm, he dug out a chunk of dry bread and a mass of slightly soaked jerky.

This shouldn’t be happening. I’ve got a house, dry bed, and warm fireplace down off this mountain someplace. What am I doin’ up here? I can’t believe I left my bedroll in the barn. My whole life spent on the drift, and now I’m caught in a storm like a tenderfoot

The fire smoked and steamed as it tried to flame above the dampening of the rain. Even with his collar fastened tight, water began to roll down his neck and soak into the shoulders of his jacket and shirt. The saddle blanket was saturated and felt heavy, cold, and wet on his duckings. He could feel water trickling down his leg and soaking his socks. Soon his toes were wet and cold. A shiver slid down his back as he stuffed some more wet meat in his mouth to keep his teeth from chattering. He figured the fire wouldn’t last too much longer.

Just a cup of hot coffee. At least I could have toted the coffe
epot. It’s goin’ to be a long night, Andrews. A really long night.

The rain was sporadic, ranging from heavy to light, but it never stopped. It was as persistent as the cold northwest wind that pushed it along.

When the morning sky gave the first hint of gray, Tap found himself dozing off, still propped up on his saddle and soaked to the bone. He could feel the water in his boots. He scouted for dry wood, but found none at all. So, retrieving Brownie, he saddled up wet and turned toward the ranch.

The horse trotted toward the cattle who had spent the night lying in the little meadow next to Camp Creek with their back ends pointed at the storm.

“We don’t need to drive ’em, boy. Let’s just get home and . . . you’re right, it would be good to graze them out behind the barn. Okay, we’ll push ’em, but if they make a break for it, we’re lettin’ them run.”

Tap’s joints were stiff. His bones ached from cold. It was a throbbing, dangerous chill that made Tap fo
rget everything but survival. The thought occurred to him that he could be going down the wrong draw and might miss the house altogether. The morning dragged on. Each ridge and draw looked the same. Each felt frozen and remote. It was with delight, then, that he crested a ridge and spotted the barn in the distance.

“Brownie, we’ll leave ’em right here. I’ll put you in the barn, and I’m going to build a big fire and sleep all day.” Tap spurred the horse and broke into a trot to cover ground quickly behind the ranch buildings. He tried to keep his teeth from chattering as the rain battered his face and the wind whipped around him. Mud flew from the horse’s hooves, but he tried to keep his mind on the warm pleasures of a roaring fire.

No black horse in the corral. “Where’s your buddy, Brownie? Maybe old Onespot found a way to break into the barn.”

Surprised to find the barn door partially open, Tap glanced around. The sight caused him to leap from the sa
ddle with his Colt drawn.

Scattered in the mud in front of the house were pots, pans, groceries, broken chairs, the ripped mattress, broken tables. Andrews ran into the house through the front door that stood open to the blowing rain.

“No. No,” he yelled.

The big living room was stripped of all furnishings except for the wood box. The bedroom was empty except for the built-in dresser. The window in the bedroom was broken. Shards of broken glass, dumped flour, and air-tight cans pun
ctured with bullet holes littered the kitchen floor. All the cupboard doors stood open, and most of the contents had been scattered about the room. The gray and white cat lay sleeping on the top shelf.

“Cat, I hope this didn’t inconvenience you too much, b
ecause it’s certainly going to torment me.”

He grabbed up a fairly clean flour sack from the floor and hiked back out into the storm. Leading Brownie into the barn, he was not surprised to find that the black horse was not there either.

“They stole him, Brownie. They stole Onespot, and the storm will wash out any trail.” He dragged off the saddle and tack, pulled down some hay into the stall, and then began to rub down the horse with the flour sack.

“We’ll get ’em, Brownie. It’s that Jordan Beckett gang, and they’ll pay. Yes, sir, they’ll pay.”

Circling the house and barn twice, Andrews could find no sign of anyone. He sloshed his way back to the house carrying his saddlebags.

Within a few minutes he had a fire b
eginning in the fireplace. Then he went outside and dragged many of the items back into the big main room. Some of the furniture that looked repairable he stacked on the front porch.

My bedroll, blankets,everything. They’ll be sorry.

Once inside the room, he pulled off his yellow slicker and hung his drenched hat on a peg by the fireplace. Finding no dry clothes or bedding, Tap had just about resigned himself to stripping down and trying to warm up by the fire. Then his eye caught sight of a short chain hanging from the ceiling in the opposite end of the room from the fireplace.

An attic? There’s an attic up there?

Pulling the chain, Tap lowered a ladder that folded out of the ceiling. He climbed to the top step, glanced into the darkness, and scurried back down the ladder to get a lamp. Lighting it, he carried it ahead of him up the ladder. The attic wasn’t tall enough to stand in. It measured about twelve feet by no more than eight feet. Among the assortment of discarded broken furnishings stood a dusty trunk with an old dried-out lantern on top.

He began to sort through the trunk. There were two bla
nkets, a small pillow, a tin with jerky and biscuits petrified beyond all use, a slightly rusted revolver and box of .44 shells, an empty canteen, and there at the bottom a pair of duckings and a worn flannel plaid shirt.

Somebody stashed this up here in case of trouble. This is it.
The trunk was too awkward to pack, so he tossed the dry goods down to the main room floor. He left the revolver and bullets in the attic.

Tap dressed in the dry clothing. The green plaid shirt was too narrow in the shoulders and upper arms. But he was d
elighted to find anything dry. He hung his own clothing about the room and collapsed in front of the fire. Wrapped in the blankets, he rested his head on the rough canvas pillow.

Somewhere in the depth of the most-needed sleep, his mind drifted to the Arizona Terr
itorial Prison in Yuma. He was in a tiny cell. The hot, dusty wind swirled off the desert.  The iron bars blistered his hands. The stifling shade at the back of the cell hid unseen stinging bugs. His throat was dry.

He wanted to run down to the Colorado River and plunge beneath its refreshing waters. He longed for a cool drink, a soft voice. Red Irma shrieked vulgar obscen
ities from the women’s section. First in English, then in Spanish. Hour after hour.

He called out to God.

No deliverance came.

Now there were scorpions in the cell—scorpions that grew bigger at each glance, that he could not crush with his boot. Other inmates wailed as they got stung with venom. Above it all, he could hear Red Irma's lewd taunts.

In the cell a Gila monster, red and black, bigger than a small dog, waddled over and clenched to his leg. He couldn’t move. The leg was shackled to the bed. A scorpion crawled across the back of his hand and lifted its tail to strike.