Where the Deer and the Antelope Play (Code of the West) by Stephen Bly

ground forming a fog that froze and encased everything in sight. It was what the Shoshones of Nevada called the pogonip, and Tap figured it might not be the cause of every infirmity, as the Indians claimed, but it surely aggravated all of his.
    By late in the day, they finally arrived at Pingree Hill. His feet and hands were numb, his ribs ached, his ear throbbed, and his eyelashes had temporarily frozen to his eyebrows. Blinking was impossible.
    Using timbers left from the dance hall, they built a huge bonfire across the road from the barn. About an hour after dark a horse trader from Helena rode up to the fire leading a string of five wide-bodied cow ponies. He turned the horses into the corral and joined them at the fire.
    Tap watched as the man and Stack visited. Then a farm wagon with four prospectors bound for Arizona came in. A fter that two drovers from Montana drifted in on broken-down horses. Then a farm tool salesman with a hard-sided wagon joined them around the fire.
    Tap could see their disappointment at finding the dance hall gone. He could see their resignation and laughter, their ge stures and proclamations. He just couldn’t hear anything other than the loud ringing sound and the crackle of the fire. He left to bury his bedroll beneath the large stack of hay in the loft of the barn.
    Tap dragged himself out of bed before daybreak, and soon he had the bonfire revived. Every bone in his body ached—but none as severely as the right side of his head. After several cups of boiled coffee, he and Stack sorted through the ruins of the dance hall. Most of the others who had stopped by the night before had slept in the barn also, and all were on their way within the first hour of the day.
    Tap wasn’t sure what to look for, but he did find several gold and silver lumps that he figured at one time had been coins. However, the high concentration of broken glass made sorting with bare hands dangerous as well as cold.
    Stack salvaged several cast-iron pots and skillets from what used to be the kitchen. He found a little purple glass bottle with a glass stopper. The label was burned off.
    “Come on, partner,” he shouted. “There ain’t nothing left here worth savin’.”
    “You goin’ to take those pans?” Tap called above the rin ging noise.
    “Nope. They’re too heavy. It’s time to just walk away. Ever ything’s gone.”
    “What’s in the bottle?”
    “It’s Rocky’s laudanum. Ain’t much left, but maybe she’ll get some sleep at night.”
    Mounting their horses, they rode west. Stack pulled up on the first pass and turned in the saddle to look down on Pi ngree Hill.
    “Don’t reckon I’ll ever be back.” He sighed.
    Tap didn’t hear many of the words, but he could read the meaning in Stack’s soft, brown eyes.
    It’s his whole life, Lord. A woman like April to work for, some girls to take care of. He’s a decent man—livin’ mostly in an ind ecent world.
    Some parts of the shortcut from Pingree Hill to the Triple Creek Ranch were no more than seven feet wide, and Tap ma rveled that Stack had managed to bring a wagon load of women through it in the dark. In places grass still showed through the snow. The sky was stuffed with clouds, but it didn’t snow. They rode two hours, then stopped to build a fire and rest the horses.
    Mounting up, they repeated the process. Stack led the way. Tap rode with his bandanna tied around his face and ears. They didn’t slow down at sunset but pressed on through the dark of night. The horses set their own pace for the journey.
    About midnight they broke out of the trees on the foothills of the Medicine Bows. They bypassed the house and rode straight to the barn.
    It was still icy cold in the room, but Tap had the fire bla zing when Stack came in and tossed the saddles down.
    “Wiley ain’t back yet?” he asked.
    “What?”
    Stack shouted at Tap’s left ear, “Wiley ain’t back?”
    “Nope,” Tap hollered. “No tellin’ what the roads are like