Stay Away From That City . . . They Call It Cheyenne (Code of the West) (6 page)

“I can’t believe you up and shot Jerome just like that. A bound man and all. It ain’t .
 . . it ain’t Christian. No, sir. It’s against the law,” Primo groused.

“Yeah,” Petey added. “What if that lynch party does come ridin’ along? What are you goin’ to tell ’em now that you killed Jerome?”

“If they really insist on hangin’ someone, I’ll let them hang you two.”

“That ain’t funny, Deputy. That ain’t one bit funny.”

3

T
he sun slipped behind the western mountains, but the cloud cover prevented sight of a sunset. Tap watched a gray evening grow even drearier as the clouds hung low and dark.

Rather than face the tra
velers on the Ft. Russell to Ft. Laramie road, he led his two prisoners further east, then turned south toward Cheyenne, blazing a new trail across the brown-grass prairie. The air cooled off, announcing the possibility of cold rain or snow before morning.

Plans sure do seem easier when I’m thinkin’ ’em up. We can’t stop for a fire. We can’t stop to eat. And somewhere over on that road there’s probably a half-drunk gang of idiots lookin’ for a lynchin’. Maybe Stack’s right. Maybe I should try freightin’. Lord, I’m not all that sure this deputy job brings out the best in me.

The corduroy collar of his ducking coat chilled the back of his neck. He reached into his saddlebag for a bandanna that he suspected wasn’t there.

Lord, freightin’ would bore me to tears.

But with Pappy gone, maybe it’s time to leave Cheyenne. After it all settles down. When they get themselves a new marshal. Whenever Hager gets his due. Justice, Lord. Hager ought to get exactly what he deserves.

Maybe there’s something for me to do that Pepper won’t worry so much about. She deserves a settled life. On a ranch like the Triple Creek.

I don’t know why we couldn’t keep it. It’s all I ever wanted. You know I never pestered You for much,Lord. Just that ranch and Pepper and to get out of the Arizona Territorial Prison and . . .

“Andrews, we ain’t goin’ to ride all the way back to town without stoppin’ for a fire, are we?”

“Petey, if you wanted to be comfortable, you should have stayed at the Drovers’ Cafe. We aren’t stoppin’.”

“It’s startin’ to rain,” Primo complained. “I can’t even screw down my hat and turn up my collar with my hands tied b
ehind my back.”

“You two aren’t goin’ to melt in the rain.”

“I think I’m gettin’ a touch of pneumony, Deputy. It ain’t goin’ to do it no good bein’ out here all night.”

Tap reined up on Brownie and turned back to the two bound gunmen.

“Boys, I can just plug ya and stuff you in a laundry sack like old Jerome. Or you can sit here in the storm like I am and get a little cold and wet. Now what’s it goin’ to be?”

“I just can’t believe you shot Jerome while he was sacked,” Petey complained. “It was those bummers that started the gunplay. If the marshal would have stayed out of it, we could have settled it ou
rselves.”

“That might be, but Hager shot Pappy Divide point-blank in the back and killed him dead. Why should Hager get treated better than Pappy?”

“Jerome was probably jist scared Pappy was on to him.”

Tap kept Brownie moving forward, but he turned and placed his hand on Brownie’s rump so he could look back at Primo and Petey, still barely visible in the evening shadows. “What do you mean, on to him?”

“Jerome had been avoidin’ lawmen like they was a swamp ever since that trouble in Dodge City.”

“What trouble was that?”

“You ain’t heard?” Primo sounded surprised.

“No, I don’t reckon I have, but I doubt if it would astonish me.”

“Don’t tell him nothin’, Primo.”

“Hager’s dead now. It surely don’t matter none. Anyway, two faro dealers in Dodge turned up dead in the alley, and Jerome was the last person to play at each layout, so some of ’em surmised he shot them both.”

“In the back, I presume,” Tap commented.

“That’s what they say, but Jerome said he didn’t reme
mber doing it. Anyway, we barely got him out of town before they tried to lynch him in Dodge.”

“If I were you, I’d find better friends.”

“He’s a top hand when he’s sober.”

“Of course,” Petey added, “he ain’t ever sober when he’s in town.”

“It’s cold, Andrews,” Primo whined. “We know a place up in the chaparral that’s protected from the wind. We could build a fire and . . .”

Tap turned back to the south and tugged Onespot’s lead rope, which automatically pulled the other two horses as well.

“We aren’t stoppin’, boys, so quit bellyachin’. You’re goin’ to Cheyenne and stand charges for tryin’ to blow a hole in the side of the jail, bustin’ out the front windows, and pullin’ a gun on me and Stack.”

The rain streamed down heavily for almost an hour. The ground turned slick, and it grew so dark Tap could no longer tell if he was heading toward Cheyenne or away from it. F
inally, he led them back to the main road. A faint path could be seen in the menacing shadows, but they slowed to a walk.

Tap’s clothes were soaked to the bone. Water drenched his boots.

This is gettin’ bad. What are you tryin’ to prove? You’re just too stubborn to admit these two drovers were right. It’s a dangerous thing when a man’s stubbornness makes him act like a fool.

His leather gloves wrung wet. His beaver felt hat sagged and b
egan to seep. He circled Brownie and the other horses off the road to the right, just past the crossroad to Salt Lake, and drew up in a clump of scrub cedars.

“Boys, you win. We need a fire, and I figure if we can find some dry cedar, we’ll be lucky. It’s a solid bet there isn’t any more wood for the next twenty miles.”

Within half an hour a snapping, smoking fire lit up the stormy night as the three men, two still hand-tied, clustered around for warmth.

“I’m a little warmer, Deputy,” Primo reported. “So you might as well let us go now.”

Tap glanced across the fire with the rifle in his lap pointed their direction. The rain halted, but a cold wind blew with a frigid, biting, dangerous howl. The muddy ground began to freeze.

“You got to let us go.”

“How’s that?”

“You got two choices. You can shoot us—”

“Don’t give him no ideas,” Petey protested.

“But he ain’t goin’ to shoot us. There ain’t no reason to waste all this flame on us if he was plannin’ on pluggin’ us. So he has to let us go ’cause we done saw him lead down Jerome while he was still in the sack. That’s murder. He can’t let us go back to Cheyenne and tell folks what he’s done.”

“Jerome was tryin’ to escape,” Tap suggested.

“Escape? You had him bagged like a raccoon in a flour sack.”

“Yeah, but who’s goin’ to believe you two?”

“We’ll tell ’em, won’t we, Petey?”

“Then I guess you’re right, Primo. I’ll just have to shoot you,” Andrews agreed.

“I won’t tell ’em,” Petey chimed in. “No, sir, I won’t say a thing. Primo said he’d tell ’em, but I didn’t say that. Did you hear me say that?”

“Shut up, Petey,” Primo growled. “He ain’t shootin’ us.”

Tap didn’t hear the wagons creak.

Or the horses snort.

Or the riders mumble.

But he saw the bullet hit the fire.

The first shot came from the dark road and hit the fir
ewood. Sparks flew over Tap, Primo, and Petey. They rolled for the cover of the Wyoming night.

“Put your guns down. We’re comin’ in,” a voice shouted.

Tap kicked the fire apart and dove behind what he hoped was a tree stump. A flash of gunfire and splinters exploded from the stump. Tap threw the wet rifle to his shoulder. His fire-warmed hands gripped the icy trigger and squeezed. He re-cocked the ’73 as he heard someone let out a scream  and curse.

Are these more friends of Jerome? They could have shot me and not the fire if they wanted to. I don’t even know who they are or what they want, and I’m cli
ppin’ ’em already.

“Andrews, hold your fire,” a voice ordered above the how
ling wind. “You hit Eden in the arm.”

“You shot first,” Tap hollered and then changed positions.

“Wait. We just want you to put down your gun so we can talk, that’s all. We didn’t plan on wingin’ ya.”

“Who’s we?”

“Just some citizens of Cheyenne who figure that Hager ought to pay for what he did.”

“So do I. That’s why we have judges and courts.”

“That ain’t what we were hired to do.”

“Who hired you?”

“We want to come in and get Hager. Then we’ll leave you and the others to go your way. We just want to take Hager back to Cheyenne for his just deserts.”

Why on earth would they want to take him back to town to hang him?

“You’re out of luck, boys. You don’t get Hager.”

“We’ll have to take him from ya." "

"Then I suppose that means a couple of you will get killed.”

“Wait,” Petey yelled. “Don’t shoot no more, boys. Hager’s a
lready dead. You cain’t hang him now.”

“That’s right,” Primo called. “We seen Andrews shoot him while he was still tied and in a sack.”

“Is that right, Andrews?”

Tap kept his rifle pointed in the direction of the voice, but he could hear horses circling around behind them. He scra
mbled to a better position with a ten-foot cedar in the shadows behind him.

“Andrews? This is Strappler from DelGatto’s. Don’t shoot. I want to talk to you. Let me light a torch, and I’ll come in.”

DelGatto’s must be empty tonight.

“Take it easy, boys,” Petey called. “He’s got us tied up. There’s two of us in here that was just ridin’ up to work on the Bar 79 in Johnson County.”

The winds died down. Tap could now hear the restless movement of men and horses. A few stars flickered through broken clouds, and he was able to see the faint outline of wagons and riders.

“Deputy,” he heard Petey whisper. “Don’t let them hang us. That ain’t right. Don’t let that mob get us.”

“Andrews?”

Tap saw the faint flicker of a glowing torch.

“It’s me—Strappler. . . . Where are you? I need to talk to you. I put my gun up. See, I’m not carrying a pistol.”

The torch inched its way down the slope toward the c
edars and the few embers of the earlier campfire still visible.

“Where are you, Deputy?”

A cold, wet steel barrel of a ’73 Winchester pressed against the man’s neck. “Right behind you, Strappler.”

“Come on, Deputy, put that down.”

“You all right, Strap?” a voice from the road shouted.

“It’s time to ride, boys. You aren’t takin’ any prisoners of mine.”

“We been ridin’ in this storm for hours, all the way to Swan’s and back. We want Hager now.”

“He’ll stand trial and then get his due. I’m hopin’ more than an
yone that they’ll hang him.”

“We ain’t
hopin’
he’ll hang. We intend to see that it happens. Pappy weren’t the only one to die in that shootout at the Occidental. You jist ride off, Deputy. We’ll take care of these here.”

“No,” Petey screamed. “I told ya, we’re jist drovers headin’ north. Hager is already dead. Look on that black horse.”

Strappler strained to look behind him. “Is that true? Did you already kill Hager?”

“I said he would stand trial,” Tap insisted.

“He cain’t stand trial if he’s dead. He’s dead, we tell you,” Primo screamed.

“Show us the body, and we’ll light shuck,” Strappler said.

“Show ’em, Deputy,” Primo called.

Several men moved toward the horses. A number of them now carried torches. Their flushed faces reflected bizarre pa
tterns in the flickering light.

"I’ll let Strappler check out the sack. Then you mount up and ride out of here. The rest of you back up.” Tap waved the ’73 Winchester at them.

“Take a look, Strap,” a voice boomed from the west.

Strappler carried the torch while Tap pressed the ’73 to the back of his neck. They moved toward the horses.

“Keep a distance, boys. Strappler’s in a tight spot here.”

As they approached the horses, several of the mob crept closer.

“Untie it and shove it to the ground.” They approached the black horse with the white blaze on his nose. “Okay, Strappler, open the sack and tell ’em what you find.”

The night manager at DelGatto’s dug hurriedly through the sack.

“Nothing but a bunch of bricks and blankets.”

“What do you mean?” Petey shouted. “We saw him—”

“Where’s Hager?”

“Hager isn’t here,” Tap called out. “He never has been.”