Read Online My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand (Code of the West) by Stephen Bly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Bly
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I can’t allow you to rob my friends.”
“How’d you know that?” Dutton called.
“I went visitin’ with the boys at the corral on Lone Tree Crick.”
“You sign up with Banner?”
“Not yet, but the pay sounds good. I’m workin’ for Tracker down here at the buckboard right now. Make up your mind, boys. Day’s gettin’ late. You want to ride off, or want me to write to your mamas?”
There was a long pause. No guns were fired.
“We’re goin’ to leave, Andrews.”
“Good choice, Snake.”
“Don’t let them take a shot at us.”
“They won’t.”
“I ain’t through with you, Andrews,” Texas Jay shouted from behind the rock.
“Get him out of here, Snake.”
“We’re goin’.”
The two gunmen scampered from behind the rocks to their wai ting horses. Tap eased Roundhouse down off the knoll toward Tracker and Cabe. His stirrups were swung up by the horse’s neck to keep him from sliding forward as they descended. He still carried the rifle across his lap. His left leg throbbed as his weight shifted from the seat of the saddle to the stirrups.
Both men still had their revolvers pointing toward the bou lders.
“’Bout time you showed up,” Cabe complained. “How come you always wander off right before trouble starts? A man might think you had it planned that way.”
“Why is it you two didn’t follow Horse Crick like I instructed?” Tap questioned.
“’Cause this way is miles shorter,” Cabe informed him.
Tap scanned the horizon while he talked. “Looks to me like you wasted time goin’ this way. You don’t make many miles standin’ around shootin’ at rocks.”
“Andrews is right about that,” Tracker responded, holste ring his gun and stepping up to inspect the rigging on the team of horses.
“We were holdin’ our own,” Cabe insisted.
“That’s because Dutton and Texas Jay are buffoons.”
“Are you sayin’ we can’t face down real gunmen like you?”
“What I’m sayin’ is that if they had half a brain between them, they would have laid up there on that knoll and picked you off before you knew they were there.”
“Can’t argue that, Wes. Come on, let’s get on up to the North Platte. I’ve had enough excitement for one day,” Tracker pressed.
Both men loaded back into the buckboard.
“You boys lead the way. I’ll drop back here to make sure those two aren’t followin’ behind,” Tap called out.
“I’d rather you were up ahead where I can keep an eye on you,” Cabe hollered.
“Guess you’ll just have to turn around.” Tap tipped his hat.
Two days is about it, Cabe. How in the world will I last two weeks with you?
Wes Cabe kept sporadically looking back as the wagon rolled along. Tap’s attention focused on the shifting shadows cast by the western slope of the prairie. Rather than look back, he glanced to his left side. He cocked the hammer back on the rifle and pulled the long-range sight down out of the way.
“Take it easy, boy,” he whispered to the big gray horse. “It’s goin’ to sound loud, but it won’t hurt you.”
A hat and head silhouette bobbed above the shadow of the knoll.
Texas Jay, I can’t believe you have lived this long. No one sets an ambush with the sun behind his back.
Then the hat, head, and shoulders shadow appeared. Som eone stood in the stirrups up on the knoll, pointing a carbine down the slope.
“Andrews!” the rider shouted.
4
T ap whirled in the saddle with his rifle to his shoulder. The metal gun sights fanned the horizon and locked on the silhouetted rider.
Don’t do it, Texas Jay. Nobody’s that dumb.
An explosion sounded from a carbine on the knoll.
Tap’s ’73 Winchester blasted in return.
A bullet cuffed the dirt ahead of the big gray horse.
Roundhouse hurtled toward the wagon.
The gunman on the knoll plunged backwards off his saddle into the baked, dry Wyoming prairie . . . and eternity.
Tap clenched the reins and snapped the panicked horse’s
“How’d you know that?” Dutton called.
“I went visitin’ with the boys at the corral on Lone Tree Crick.”
“You sign up with Banner?”
“Not yet, but the pay sounds good. I’m workin’ for Tracker down here at the buckboard right now. Make up your mind, boys. Day’s gettin’ late. You want to ride off, or want me to write to your mamas?”
There was a long pause. No guns were fired.
“We’re goin’ to leave, Andrews.”
“Good choice, Snake.”
“Don’t let them take a shot at us.”
“They won’t.”
“I ain’t through with you, Andrews,” Texas Jay shouted from behind the rock.
“Get him out of here, Snake.”
“We’re goin’.”
The two gunmen scampered from behind the rocks to their wai ting horses. Tap eased Roundhouse down off the knoll toward Tracker and Cabe. His stirrups were swung up by the horse’s neck to keep him from sliding forward as they descended. He still carried the rifle across his lap. His left leg throbbed as his weight shifted from the seat of the saddle to the stirrups.
Both men still had their revolvers pointing toward the bou lders.
“’Bout time you showed up,” Cabe complained. “How come you always wander off right before trouble starts? A man might think you had it planned that way.”
“Why is it you two didn’t follow Horse Crick like I instructed?” Tap questioned.
“’Cause this way is miles shorter,” Cabe informed him.
Tap scanned the horizon while he talked. “Looks to me like you wasted time goin’ this way. You don’t make many miles standin’ around shootin’ at rocks.”
“Andrews is right about that,” Tracker responded, holste ring his gun and stepping up to inspect the rigging on the team of horses.
“We were holdin’ our own,” Cabe insisted.
“That’s because Dutton and Texas Jay are buffoons.”
“Are you sayin’ we can’t face down real gunmen like you?”
“What I’m sayin’ is that if they had half a brain between them, they would have laid up there on that knoll and picked you off before you knew they were there.”
“Can’t argue that, Wes. Come on, let’s get on up to the North Platte. I’ve had enough excitement for one day,” Tracker pressed.
Both men loaded back into the buckboard.
“You boys lead the way. I’ll drop back here to make sure those two aren’t followin’ behind,” Tap called out.
“I’d rather you were up ahead where I can keep an eye on you,” Cabe hollered.
“Guess you’ll just have to turn around.” Tap tipped his hat.
Two days is about it, Cabe. How in the world will I last two weeks with you?
Wes Cabe kept sporadically looking back as the wagon rolled along. Tap’s attention focused on the shifting shadows cast by the western slope of the prairie. Rather than look back, he glanced to his left side. He cocked the hammer back on the rifle and pulled the long-range sight down out of the way.
“Take it easy, boy,” he whispered to the big gray horse. “It’s goin’ to sound loud, but it won’t hurt you.”
A hat and head silhouette bobbed above the shadow of the knoll.
Texas Jay, I can’t believe you have lived this long. No one sets an ambush with the sun behind his back.
Then the hat, head, and shoulders shadow appeared. Som eone stood in the stirrups up on the knoll, pointing a carbine down the slope.
“Andrews!” the rider shouted.
4
T ap whirled in the saddle with his rifle to his shoulder. The metal gun sights fanned the horizon and locked on the silhouetted rider.
Don’t do it, Texas Jay. Nobody’s that dumb.
An explosion sounded from a carbine on the knoll.
Tap’s ’73 Winchester blasted in return.
A bullet cuffed the dirt ahead of the big gray horse.
Roundhouse hurtled toward the wagon.
The gunman on the knoll plunged backwards off his saddle into the baked, dry Wyoming prairie . . . and eternity.
Tap clenched the reins and snapped the panicked horse’s
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