One Went to Denver and the Other Went Wrong (Code of the West) (5 page)

  Tap turned back to the man in his grip and muttered under his breath, “How about it, Mr. Doorman? Where’s Wade?”

  “I’ve never heard of the man. He is not now nor has he ever been a member of the Front Range Club.”

  Tap shoved the barrel harder into the man’s face.

  “However, if I did know him .
 . . which I don’t . . . I would suggest you look in the jail.”

  “Jail? At the courthouse? You mean he’s got a trial goin’ on?”

  “I mean,” the man huffed, “that if I knew him, I would inform you that he is either locked up behind bars or hung.”

  “Hung?” Tap released the man, who quickly gathered up his gun, shoved it in his holster, and retreated behind the etched-glass door.

  Tap dropped his own revolver back in the holster and scooted through the crowd to where Brownie was hitched. He had turned back toward the street when he heard a shout from the sidewalk.

  “Mister, are you lookin’ for that Injun Eagleman?”

  Spinning in the saddle, he saw a white-bearded man wave his hat. Tap rode over to the man.

  “You know Wade, old-timer?”

  “You a friend of his?”

  “Yep.”

  “Eagleman stood by me in court when I didn’t have a penny to my name.”

  “What’s this about him being arrested or something?”

  “That’s right. They claim he shot Crawford Billingsly in the back.”

  “The railroad man?”

  “That’s the one.” The old man shuffled his feet and shaded his eyes from the sun.

  “Wade wouldn’t shoot anyone in the back,” Tap protested.

  “I know that, but they dug up some witnesses who claimed he done it, and it seems like there is high-up folks who want to see him hung in an awful big hurry.”

  Tap sat back straight in the saddle. “Thanks, professor.” He tipped his hat.

  “Hey, mister . . . there’s plenty of folks around town that thinks Eagleman’s gettin’ a raw deal. If you need some help, you might be surprised how many would answer the call.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Tap called as he rode Brownie south along the street.

  In room 24 on the second floor of the Drovers’ Hotel, Tap Andrews lay in the shadows on a lumpy mattress, spinning the cylinder of his Colt.

  Lord, if I go marching into the jail to see Wade, someone’s likely to recognize me and toss me in there before I get a chance to do any talkin’. Now You know I intend on clearin’ up this matter, but I don’t plan to get shipped back to Yuma without explainin’ my case to someone. Maybe I could just send Brannon a telegraph myself. That way I wouldn’t have to depend on Wade or nobody.

  ’Course, that doesn’t help Wade.

  Lord, I can’t help him. It won’t do him no good for me to barge down there and get tossed in with him. ’Course, maybe no one in Denver’s ever heard of Tap Andrews. Anyway, if I can’t help, I should stay completely away .
 . . right?

  One hour later, wearing a newly purchased dark suit, boiled shirt, and black tie, Tap Andrews sat in the front office of the Denver Jail.

  Lord, I feel like an undertaker . . . but I’m not sure whose funeral I’m at. These clothes are bad enough, but not packin’ a gun . . . Lord, I figure there must be a dozen men in this town who would try to shoot me on sight if they spotted me unarmed. This is crazy. I shouldn’t—

  His thoughts were interrupted when a jailer motioned for him to follow. The dark corridor smelled of tobacco, whiskey, and sweat.

  “I’ll give you ten minutes to make your private arrangements. Do not move your hands toward the prisoner or attempt to take anything from him,” the guard droned.

  Wade Eagleman looked happy to see Tap but kept quiet until the guard had retreated. “Compadre, you look like a bull at a ballet.”

  “I feel a whole lot worse than I look. But you aren’t exactly doin’ so well yourself.”

  Eagleman dropped his smile. “Yeah. Last time we were together, you were in here, and I was out there. I heard you got hung down in Arizona, but I knew better.”

  “I was doin’ time in A. T. P., but I’m on a sort of vacation.”

  “Who was the woman this time?” Eagleman chided.

  “It doesn’t matter. What can I do to get you out of here?”

  “They pushed this case through in four days. No one’s interested in the truth. They just wanted the matter solved. It doesn’t look to me like I have a prayer.”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  “What?”

  “Prayed for you.”

  “Are you kiddin’ me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Man, it has been a long time since we’ve seen each other.”

  “What did the notorious trial lawyer and pride of the Comanche Nation do to deserve this?” Tap pressed.

  “You ever heard of Crawford Billingsly?”

  “Yep.”

  “We were playin’ a pretty high game of draw poker a few months back. I put up twenty lots I own on the north side of town. He decided to answer in kind and put up twenty lots he owned on the next street over from mine. I won the hand on queens and jacks. When he sent me the deeds to the lots, they were for some south side property that isn’t worth a third of those uptown lots.

  “So, I pitched a fit. Threatened to take him to court. This argument went on and on, week after week. Finally, I filed a lien against those good lots and discovered that he had sold ’em all in September.”

  “Nice fellow.”

  “Needless to say, I was a little hot under the collar when I saw him at the club.”

  “The club?”

  “The Front Range Club. I’m a member there, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s surprising how money changes the color of one’s skin. Anyway, he and I fell into a shoutin’ match at the club. I got all steamed up and got to saying some things I shouldn’t have.”

  “I don’t suppose you mentioned putting a bullet through his belly at the first chance you got?”

  “Words to that effect. Later that night he got shot in the back and died. Two witnesses claim they saw me do it.”

  “Where were you during the murder?”

  “I was so mad at him that I went to the office and drank myself to sleep. They arrested me asleep in my own chair. Not one bullet missing from my gun or my bullet belt, but they claimed I pumped four shots into old Billingsly.”

  “So what happens next?”

  “I’m scheduled to be hung within the week.”

  “You got any ideas who could have done it?”

  “Nope. But those witnesses know it wasn’t me.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Looked like a couple of drifters.”

  “You got any names?”

  “One was called Jacob Rippler. The other was Three Fingers Slim.”

  “He ought to be easy to find.”

  “I would guess they got paid off and are long gone by now. But they claimed not to know each other. One was just standing around by himself on the north side of the street, and the other happened to be on the south side. They repeated the exact same story.”

  “No one sees a shootin’ exactly like the other guy.”

  “I pointed that out to the judge, but it didn’t seem to hold much authority. I won a race horse from that judge last spring, and I don’t figure he’s ever forgiven me.”

  “So what can I do?”

  “I’ve got some papers you can take to the governor’s office. If approved, it means he’ll review my case, and that will postpone any hanging for a while.”

  “You want me to walk into the governor’s office?” Tap asked.

  “It’s no big deal. You aren’t wanted in Colorado, are you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Just give the papers to a man named Whitney. He’ll give you a signed receipt, and that might buy me some time.”

  “Then I’ll try to track down those drifters.”

  “If they don’t haul me out and lynch me first.”

  “Who would want to do that?”

  “Billingsly’s bunch. And the one who really did the killin’.”

  “How am I going to get the papers? The deputy assured me I couldn’t take anything from you. Is that legal?”

  “Nope, but I don’t want him to know what I’m doin’ anyway. When he walks up here, lean against the bars with the back of that store-bought coat. I’ll slip them in your pocket.”

  “Okay. Wade, I’ll do my best for you.”

  “I know it. I’ve been in Denver close to five years, and I don’t trust a one of the other lawyers in town. That’s why I sent for you. I heard through the boys that a mean brown-eyed, gun-slingin’ ladies’ man from Arizona by the name of Tap was out on the North Platte. But be careful. Whoever is tryin’ to set me up is not above shootin’ a man in the back.”

  “What do you mean, you sent for me?”

  “You didn’t get my message? I sent it with the stage driver to McCurley Hotel.”

  “When?”

  “A week, ten days ago. I didn’t want to pull you into this, but you’re the one man I knew who wouldn’t back down from a fight and couldn’t be bought. But if you didn’t get it, why did you come?”

  “I don’t want no guffaw from you, but I aim to get married. And, well . . .”

  “What? Who are you kiddin’? Tap Andrews married?”

  “Hush. Let me finish.”

  “You find some rich widow? Shoot, they didn’t even need to be widows, right?”

  “Would you settle down, or I’ll haul you out and lynch you myself. It’s a long story that I’ll tell you after I get you out of here and you come visit my ranch.”

  “You got a ranch?”

  “Sort of. Now listen to me .
 . . I need to get out of a squeeze down in Arizona myself. I don’t want to get married and spend the next thirty years dodging bounty hunters and lawmen. I need a lawyer to go to work for me.”

  “Doesn’t that beat anything?” Wade roared with laughter. “You showed up at the right time even though you didn’t get my message. That’s sort of providential, if a man believed in that sort of thing.”

  “I do.”

  Wade stared at Tap for a moment. “I’ve got to meet this lady of yours,” he crowed. “She’s got you hogtied and whipped into shape. You might amount to something yet, boy. It’s a long way from those old days along the Pecos.”

  “We both might amount to somethin’ if we can keep from gettin’ hung,” Tap added.

  “Time’s up down there,” the jailer called as he walked toward Wade Eagleman’s cell. Tap turned to face the jailer but leaned against the bars.

  “Get your coat away from that cell, mister,” the jailer growled.

  “Sorry. I’m not too used to this new suit.”

  “Everyone can see that.”

  “I’ll try to visit with you again, Mr. Eagleman. Voy a ver *El * Gobernador, compadre.”

  “You two Mexicans speak English, you hear me?” the jailer snapped.

  “Mister, if you’re trying to insult me, you’ll have to find a better term than that.”

  As he walked out of the jail, Tap heard the deputy ask Eagleman, “Who was that guy?”

  “Billy the Kid,” Eagleman teased.

  “Billy was killed down in New Mexico last year,” the guard reminded him.

  “Si, señor, but that was hees ghost.”

  Tap chuckled all the way to the governor’s office.

3

L
ong evening shadows lapped the streets of Denver like a silent winter plague by the time Tap arrived at the Colorado governor’s office. The governor’s secretary, Mr. Whitney, agreed to review the papers Wade Eagleman had sent. Hurrying back through the chill of the evening, Tap returned to the hotel and changed back into his duckings. He strapped on his Colt, buttoned the top button of his brown coat, and yanked down his hat. He picked up his Winchester ’73 and then set the rifle back down in the corner of the room, leaning it against the faded green ivy on the wallpaper.

  He glanced in the small broken mirror beside the hotel door and brushed some road dust from his coat.

  Andrews, at least now you look human. The Lord never intended man to wear a store-bought suit and tie. That’s why He dressed Adam and Eve in hides. God makes the bugs that live under rocks, so I guess he can create folks who like city life . . . but you surely aren’t one of ’em.

  He felt crowded in and yet alone as he walked down the streets of Denver. People were bundled up and looking down at their feet as they hurried to somewhere. Even the children had lost their natural smiles to the cold. His burgundy silk bandanna felt cold as it rubbed back and forth on his neck.

  Tap entered the Plainsman Cafe & Saloon just as the sun dropped below the snow-capped peaks in the west. He asked the overweight bartender if he knew anything about Jacob Rippler or a man called Three Fingers Slim.

  “Never heard of ’em,” the man everyone called Tubby replied.

  After the Plainsman came the Ponderosa Club, the Johnson Hotel, The Palomino, Evangeline’s Card Room & Dance Hall, the Central Hotel, George W. Sampson’s Fine Drinking Emporium, Butch’s Water Hole, the Aurora Club, Cactus Curley’s, the Lone Star Saloon, the Vicksburg Cafe, and Samantha’s Place.