Read Online I'm Off to Montana for to Throw the Hoolihan (Code of the West) by Stephen Bly - Free Book Online Page A

reported.
    “He said that?”
    “Yeah, but he changed his mind when you unbuttoned your coat and showed your .44. What kind am I anyway?”
    Tap stared down at her round, brown eyes and white-toothed smile. “Smart. They obviously don’t want too many smart people stayin’ here at once. It would make the help look bad.”
    The clerk closed the registration book and dropped his pencil on the counter. “I presume you won’t be needing a room?”
    “Mister, you’re gettin’ smarter by the minute.” Tap’s right hand rested on the polished walnut grip of his holstered Colt. “Maybe you aren’t a complete idiot.”
    The smile slipped off Angelita’s face. “He didn’t say that because I’m Mexican, did he?”
    “Oh no, I’m sure that wasn’t it.” Tap’s hand still rested on his r evolver. “Was it, mister?”
    Beads of sweat a ppeared on the man’s brow.
    “That permanent tan of hers sure is purdy, isn’t it?” Tap pressed.
    “Why, certainly. Yes, it is.”
    “Those pigtails probably fooled him, and he thought you were under age for checkin’ into a room by yourself.”
    The clerk took a deep breath. “That’s a good way of putting it.”
    “I thought so.” Tap took his hand off the gun. “Now, da rlin’, how about you runnin’ up to Room 24 to see if Miss Selena’s available for dinner?”
    Angelita scampered up the stairs. Tap turned to the counter, but the nervous clerk had slipped into a back room. Tap wa ndered over to a table littered with several newspapers. The newest well-worn paper was dated April 4, 1883, St. Paul. He tossed them aside and studied a map on the lobby wall that showed the route of the Northern Pacific across Montana. Several hotel patrons filtered into the lobby.
    Looks like Cantrell’s Siding will be the shortest route from the ranch to a railhead—if this map is right. Maybe we could ship cattle from there.
    A commotion near the stairs caused him to spin around. Two men loitered at the bottom of the stairs talking loudly to Selena. Angelita stood a couple of steps behind her. Tap scooted closer.
    “And I say you’re comin’ with us. You’ve got some dancin’ to do.” The speaker was tall and thin and wore greasy wool pants. A dirty red bandanna ringed his neck. He also needed a shave, haircut, and clean shirt. He wore no holster, but carried a co nverted Navy Colt jammed into the front of his belt.
    “You owe us, Selena,” the shorter man insisted. He looked as if he had just walked out of a clothing store—new suit, new hat, po lished black boots, oiled hair, waxed mustache. His new Colt Peacemaker was cased in a stiff brand-new leather Wyoming holster. “You shanghaied us and lifted our pokes down in Colorado. We just want what we paid for, that’s all.”
    Tap walked slowly across the lobby, trying to keep his spurs quiet. Several people scooted out the front door. The clerk peered out from the back room.
    “I owe you nothing,” Selena insisted “I will not go anywhere with the likes of you two. If you continue to aggravate me, I have no choice but to use force.”
    “Force? Did you hear that, Bean?” the taller one sneered. “She’s going to use force.”
    “I guess that means she’ll pull that long, skinny knife out of her sleeve and try to stick us, like last time. It won’t work, dance-hall dove. We don’t scare off easy.”
    Selena’s dark eyes flashed. She wore a white knit shawl over her green velvet dress. Her arms were crossed and her hands buried in opposite sleeves. “I assure you, if I had pulled a knife on you before, you wouldn’t be standing here badgering me.”
    Tap moved directly behind the men. She probably does have her hand on that knife.
    “You’re comin’ with us now. I’m through talkin’.”
    The man in the fancy suit awkwardly tried to pull the gun out of the new holster. Tap stepped up and smacked the man’s wrist with the barrel of his .44. The new pistol crashed to the floor, and its owner let out a