My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand (Code of the West)

CODE OF THE WEST

W
ESTERN SERIES

BOOK
FIVE

MY FOOT'S IN THE STIRRUP . . . MY PONY WON'T STAND

Stephen Bly

T
HE
CODE OF THE WEST W
ESTERN
S
ERIES

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

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

Copyright © 1996 by Stephen Bly

Published by

Dusty Trail Books

158 Laneda Avenue

Manzanita, Oregon  97130

ISBN-13: 978-1492909798

ISBN-10: 1492909793

Cover design by Stephen George

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.

First printing 1996

Printed in the United States of America

For

The Wild Bunch

A
t
Broken Arrow Crossin
’

1

M
onday, August 27, 1883, ten miles north of Pine Bluffs, Wyoming Territory.

...................................................

The bullet that struck Brownie seemed to fall straight out of the sky. When the horse went down, Tap Andrews didn’t know whether to dive to the right or to the left.

But either way, he knew he had to come up firing.

He hit the dry Wyoming dirt with as much grace as a tree limb falling to the ground during a windstorm. His ribs slammed into the baked prairie. He jerked his leg free from under the struggling horse.

He squeezed one shot straight up the trail at the blue Wy
oming sky, hoping it would buy him time to find protection. Holding his ’73 Winchester parallel to his body, Tap rolled a good twenty feet out into the prairie. The foot and a half tall buckskin-colored weeds supplied a little cover if he kept his head down and didn’t move a muscle.

The second shot finished off the downed horse. The third ripped into the earth about ten feet from Tap.

They’re up the trail, but how can they see me without me seeing them? There’s nothing to hide behind until Lodgepole Creek. Where are they?

Another shot rang out, this time far to the right side of the dead horse. Tap fought back the urge to lift his head to spy out his attac
kers.

Brownie, you’ve been a good friend ever since I broke out of ATP at Yuma. I sorely regret your early demise. But I'm hoping to figure out a way not to join you in the very near future. And it would have been more considerate if you had fallen sideways and provided a little protection.

Tap wiggled to extract the rifle from under his body. Clutching the twenty-four-inch round-barreled Winchester, he raised the upper tang long-range peep sight.

Another bullet tore the dirt halfway between him and Brownie.

Yeah, I know you’re up there. I just don’t know who you are or how many. But my guess is, there are three of you.

One of you is riding a mare with a broken right rear shoe. And on the other side of that roll in the prairie graze about

sixty-four head of re-branded rustled cattle.

I’d guess you’re about 150 to 200 yards away with a Sharps .50 caliber set up on a rock or shootin’ rest. You can hit a horse, but how about someone who’s shootin’ back?

Tap loosened the eye cup and cranked the sight up to the hand-filed notch. It was 180 yards, give or take a few.

Once he tightened the eye cup in place, he pulled the ha
mmer off the safety position and slid the dust cover back with his thumb. He spotted the brass cartridge already in the chamber. Lying flat in the grass, his right hand slipped into place around the trigger.

Another shot exploded dirt about five feet to his right.

They’re gettin’ closer. Just give me one shot, if I have room.

A 400-grain lead bullet ripped into the hard clay soil just two feet away. Dirt blasted his hands and face. The minute he heard the r
eport of the rifle, he raised himself up on one elbow and squeezed the rifle trigger aimed two inches below the brim of a distant brown hat.

Tap tucked the gun to his side and rolled further away from Brownie. Several handgun shots rattled the earth in his general dire
ction as the man with the brown hat collapsed on the crest of the gentle rolling prairie.

That’s one.

Lord, I don’t even know who I’m shootin’ at. If they’d just git up and ride away, it would be fine with me.

The air was so still and heavy that his gun smoke still hung in the air over his previous position, attracting shots so widely scattered Tap worried about getting hit purely by chance.

He cocked the lever on the rifle and waited in the short grass for another opportunity.

They’re usin’ pistols to flush me out. And savin’ the Sharps for when I raise up. I hope that old boy holding the rifle is a pretty good shot, because if he scatters this, I could be in real trouble.

Flat on his stomach, he reached across his back and drew his Colt .44 out of the holster. Sweat puddled in the dust under his face as the heat baked his now hatless head.

Must be 100
˚
and not a cloud in the sky. I might as well be in Arizona
.

He drew the rifle with his right hand, and cocked the si
ngle-action Colt with the left.

If I don’t shoot myself, this mig
ht work.

Tap fired the revolver wildly into the air. A heavy puff of smoke hung above the weeds. He dropped the gun in the grass and rolled about three feet back in Brownie’s direction. As he expected, the big-bore rifle blasted. A bullet ripped through the soil where the co
mpressed weeds outlined his former position.

He focused on a narrow-brimmed black hat hunkered far ahead on the prairie crest and fired from his one-elbow pos
ition again. Then rolled even closer to Brownie in the thickest part of the weeds. Another man slumped down on Wyoming soil.

That’s two. ’Course, I could be wrong. There could be more than three of ’em.

He wanted to reach back for the dropped Colt, but it was too far away and in the line of fire of the remaining gunman. Tap cocked the lever-action rifle. He tried to sense the man’s next move.

If he was smart, he’d take all three horses and ride off. He knows I can’t fo
llow him. But it’s pride now. He can’t back out. A three-to-one ambush is pretty good odds. Only you boys picked a lousy place. You had to commit yourself at 200 yards. Can’t shoot a man in the back that way.

Random shots kicked up dirt around Tap’s position. Cheek flat to the dirt, a sharp sting caused him to slap hi
mself.

Ants?

Big red ants!

He brushed them off and drew a bullet five feet in front of him. Tap tried his best to shake the ants off his arms without revealing his position. They seemed to be swarming closer.

Do something, quick.

Tap eased the buckhorn knife out of his boot and rested it beside him. Then he tugged off his red ba
ndanna.

Why are the weeds shorter on my right? Why does it work that way? I’ll have to roll on top those blasted ants.

Scooting the knife and the bandanna above his head, he kept his head low. Then he tied the bandanna to the buckhorn handle and slowly transferred the Winchester to his left hand. With his right hand clutching the knife, he extended it as far out as he could, then jabbed it into the hard dirt. As the red bandanna flagged the knife’s position, Tap rolled to the left, back into the ants, and up on his elbow.

The bullet from the Sharps shattered the large Bowie buc
khorn handle, but Tap’s bullet found its mark. The distant gunman dropped next to his accomplices.

Tap waited, then raised with caution to his knees, his fi
nger tight on the Winchester trigger. No sound. No movement.

Three sharp bites stung his left arm. One dug into his left side. Tap leaped to his feet and hollered in torment.

He brushed and slapped the ants through his rough grey cotton shirt. Sharp stings scattered to his back, arms, and neck.

He holstered his Colt, scooted up the hill, and pointed his rifle the direction of the downed gunmen. At the same time, he tore open his shirt. Even the heat of the sun felt cooler on his bare chest than the fiery bites of the swarming red ants.

When he reached the crest of the prairie roll, he found all three men dead. Each one had been shot about two to three inches below the brim of their hats.

“You boys didn’t give me nothin’ else to aim at.”

He gazed to the north at sixty-four head of TS beef that had been crudely re-branded I8I. Dropping his Winchester, he yanked off his shirt, and let his suspenders hang down the side of his chap-encased britches. He rubbed himself all over, then shook his shirt hard.

The shirt tossed across his shoulder, he rolled the gu
nmen on their backs. “It wasn’t worth it, boys. Givin’ up your life for rustled cattle wasn’t a good bargain. You should have gone to work for the railroad or a coal mine and earned an honest dollar. But you made your choice. May God have mercy on your souls. I don’t even know your names or if you were workin’ on your own or for someone else.”

Both legs got attacked. Tap swatted them as he danced across the prairie. The stings were so intense that he hardly noticed a large wagon pulled by a team of four mules rattle up the draw.

Tap clutched his shirt, buttoned his britches, pulled the suspenders up on his bare shoulders, and retrieved his Winchester. A young man in his late teens or early twenties with round face and easy smile drove the wagon. He wore a tattered bowler and the bare start of a mustache.

He pulled up to the three scattered bodies. “Saw you dancin’ around from a mile back. What happened?”

Tap shuddered as he kneaded his arms. “It’s those red demons.” He bent over and scratched his legs through worn brown leather chaps and tan canvas duckings.

“You had a run-in with Injuns?”

“No, ants. They’re about to eat me alive.”

The young man’s blue eyes widened. “Ants killed them three on the ground?”

Tap brushed at his hair. “No, I killed them, but I was layin’ in a bed of ants.”

The man began to reach under the wagon seat.

Tap swung the rifle toward him.

“You goin’ to kill me, too?” the young man blurted out.

“Not unless you pull out a gun from under that wagon seat.”

“That’s fair enough. The gun stays put. What happened here an
yway?”

“These three have been rustlin’ some of Tom Slaughter’s TS beef. I tracked them down this far, and they jumped me.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know Slaughter?”

“Yeah, I work for him and several other ranchers. I’m the brand inspector.”

“No foolin’? I’d like to see Slaughter about a job myself. Is he still in Pine Bluffs?”

“Yep, provided he didn’t go into Cheyenne or Denver to do some business.”

“Anything I can do for you?”

“If you got a shovel, I’d like to borrow it, if I might.”

“Surely. You goin’ to bury these men?”

“Nope. I’m going to bury my horse.”

“Your horse? I never heard of a man burying a horse out here on the prairie.”

“They killed my horse. He’s been a good partner to me. I aim to see that the coyotes and vultures don’t pick his bones. It’s the least a man can do.”

“Well, I’ll be.”

“I'd be obliged if you could take a message and these three ho
mbres into town.”

“You want me to haul the bodies in?”

“I’ll load them up for you.”

“How about the ponies?”

“I’ll round them up and bring them myself. You pullin’ an empty rig?” Tap jabbed at his itchy face.

“I regret to admit that I am. They’re all gone, you know.”

“What’s all gone?”

“The buffalo. I won this hidin’ outfit in a poker game in Custer City and worked my way down from the Black Hills. I didn’t find even one shaggy back. They’re all gone. Just like they was ghosts. You interested in buyin’ a hidin’ outfit? I’ll sell you ever’thing cheap.”

“Nope, not interested, son.”

As Tap pushed the third body into the wagon, the young man pulled all three forward and unfolded a canvas over the top of them.

“What about them bovines? You going to leave them out here for Sioux bait?”

“I’ll gather the ponies and stick with the herd until Tom Slaughter sends some boys out to drive them home. Tell him I’m at the head of Antelope Draw.” Tap slipped on his shirt and scraped at his arms.

“Here’s the shovel, but I don’t envy you digging a hole big enough for a horse in this hard dirt. You got a hat?”

“Down the slope a ways. Thanks, son, I appr
eciate your help. If you’re still in Pine Bluffs when I get home, I’ll buy you supper.”

“I’ll take you up on that, mister. But I don’t reckon I can fi
gure how one man can get ambushed on the open prairie and take out three men.”

“Most bushwhackers are only good at shootin’ in the back. They seem to lose their enthusiasm when you start tossin’ lead back at them.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Tap Andrews.”

“Andrews?” The young man gaped. “You related to that deputy that took on Del Gatto’s gang a few months back over at Cheyenne?”

“Yeah, you might say we’re related.”

“I read about that up in Deadwood. You’re him, ain’t ya?”

Tap buttoned his shirt with some caution. “Yeah, I’m him.”

“No kiddin’? So I met the famous Tapadera Andrews.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t much of an honor.”