Stay Away From That City . . . They Call It Cheyenne (Code of the West) by Stephen Bly Page B

inquired.
    “This young lady, a girl actually, she’s Bob Ford’s niece. I guess the family’s in hard straits. You know, lots of folks co nsider Ford the villain in the story. Anyway, she was right at the ticket counter, crying her eyes out because she didn’t have enough money to go to St. Joseph.”
    “And you offered to help her?”
    “No, I didn’t think about it until she tugged on my sleeve and wanted to know if I would buy her shoes for a dollar.”
    “Shoes?”
    “I wasn’t about to buy a little girl’s only pair of shoes. Then she pulled out this reward poster. She said it was the only thing of value she had, but she didn’t know if it was worth a dollar.”
    “A dollar? You got a steal, Leo.”
    “That’s what I figured. Look at this: ‘$25,000 reward, dead or alive.’ Signed by the St. Louis-Midland Railroad. And right there—look at it: ‘Your pal, Jesse James.’ A genuine autograph.”
    Tap strolled near the table.
    “Excuse me, I just overheard a little of the conversation. Did you happen to get that wanted poster from a ten-year-old girl with coal-black curly hair, dark skin, dancing eyes, and a turned-up nose?”
    “Yes, that’s her. Do you know her?”
    “Yep.”
    “I know her last name’s Ford, but what’s her first name?”  Tap sighed. “Her name is Angelita.”
    He rode Brownie down by the U. P. Station but didn’t spot Angelita. He stopped at the mayor’s hotel to talk about what to do with Simp Merced. Tom Breshnan was still gone, so he rode back to the house and changed into his Sunday suit. After washing his neck and shaving, he took one last look in the mirror.
    Strained brown eyes. A streak of gray above his left ear. The bruise on his neck was turning yellow.
    I will never, ever get used to wearin’ these clothes. It’s not natural. A man wasn’t created to strut around all slicked up like this. If we had that ranch in the hills, I wouldn’t have to, except for church and funerals.
    Stepping out to the front porch, Tap glanced across the street. Someone peeked out from the Wallace home. He tipped his hat and nodded. The curtains ruffled shut.
    If there was anyone in Cheyenne besides Baltimore Gomez who didn’t attend Pappy Divide’s funeral, Tap couldn’t tell it. Wrapped in topcoats, cloaks, and assorted wool blankets, the city gathered under heavy, gray clouds to hear Rev. H. H. Dixon shout the service. A cannon brought in from Ft. Russell sounded the farewell tribute. After a few words with Pepper and Savannah, Tap led Pappy’s buckskin saddle horse back to the I-X-L Livery. Willie Templeton met him at the barn to collect the animals.
    “Shore do seem strange not to have Pappy ridin’ ol’ Pa ncake, don’t it?”
    “Yep. This town will miss him.”
    “I don’t figure how he got it,” Willie continued. “He’s the one man in town who seemed to get along with ever’one.”
    “All it takes is one blurry-eyed drunk. It could have been any of us.”
    “Yes, sir, Deputy. You’re right about that. We’re all livin’ on borrowed time, so to speak. It’ll take a good spell to find someone who can take Pappy’s place.”
    “Willie, Pepper and I will be goin’ out to the Fort tomorrow evening. You got a buggy we can rent?”
    “You invited to that Calico Hop?”
    “That’s what I hear.”
    “I reckon I didn’t figure you for the dancin’ type. You want a standard or deluxe carriage?”
    Tap pulled his rifle out of his scabbard and walked to the barn door. “I want the cheap one, Willie.”
    Later that evening he sat at the kitchen table cleaning his guns by the flickering light of a poorly trimmed lantern.
    I can’t believe I told Pepper to spend another night with S avannah. We’ve only been married three months, but a man sure does get used to having a woman at home every night. Lord, the whole thing sort of snuck up on me. I figured for years that I just wasn’t the religious type. Then . . . all of a sudden there You were staring