Where the Deer and the Antelope Play (Code of the West) by Stephen Bly Page A
Authors: Stephen Bly
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up in Wyomin’.”
“I didn’t see any activity at the house. Did you?”
Tap looked Stack in the face. “You figure we ought to go over and check on the women? They might be pretty excited to find out about the money.”
Stack sat down on his saddle and tugged at his black stove-top boots. “Let ’em sleep. That little one ain’t cryin’; they must be all right. There’s smoke in the chimney, so they’ve got the place warm.”
Within two minutes of pulling the dirty wool blankets over his shoulder, Tap fell asleep to the sounds of continuous church bells ringing and two thousand crickets chirping in his right ear.
The air was biting cold, his back was stiff, and the room was pitch-black when Tap blinked his eyes open. He moved his hand across the floor and pulled his Colt .44 from the holster.
Lord, somethin’s goin’ on. I can sense it, but I can’t see it . . . or hear it.
He stood to his feet. A sharp pain shot through his ribs. Barefoot, clutching the gun, he stole to the thin wooden door that separated the tack room from the main part of the barn.
A flicker of light filtered into the barn from the less than airtight siding. The dirt floor was cold on Tap’s feet as he scooted to the main barn door. He threw the latch on the door, swung the door open about eight inches, and peered toward the yard.
Standing not more than a foot in front of the door was a man, his face covered with a dark bandanna, a wide-brimmed hat pushed low. Tap raised and cocked the Colt in one action.
The man jerked the bandanna down immediately. “Whoa. Tap, it’s me—Wiley.”
“What?”
“Wiley. It’s me—Wiley,” he shouted.
“Oh . . . Wiley. Yeah.” Tap shoved the big barn door open and signaled for Wiley to bring his horse inside.
“Didn’t you hear me call out?”
Tap shuffled over and lit a lamp. Wiley tugged off his gloves and blew warm air into his hands.
“I said,” Wiley began, “why didn’t you . . .? Good grief. What happened to the side of your head?”
“I ran into a rifle barrel. Can’t hear worth beans. Talk to this other ear.”
“Did you get April’s and the girls’ money back?” Wiley ho llered.
“Yep. How ’bout you? Get them telegrams sent?”
“Yeah. I also got some news about Fightin’ Ed. He’s goin’ to move you out of here. He’s gone to see some of his friends at the Cheyenne Club.”
“Cheyenne? They don’t have anything to say about Col orado.”
“I hope you’re right. How are the girls?”
“What?”
“Girls! How are the girls?”
“We just pulled in a couple hours ago. We let ’em sleep.”
“One of ’em ain’t sleepin’.”
“What?”
“I rode by there and heard one of ’em cryin’.”
“It must be Rocky.”
“You and Stack take any lead?”
“Bed? Yeah, go on. Stack will take care of Rocky.”
Wiley shrugged and put his horse away. Tap woke Stack from a deep sleep. The groggy piano player tugged on his boots and coat and crunched across the yard to the house.
Several minutes later he returned carrying a pan covered by a checkered napkin in one hand and the little purple bottle in the other.
“How’s she doin’, Stack?”
“Better now. That was one happy girl when she saw this.” He held up the glass bottle. “They had some extra biscuits in the kitchen.”
“Did ya tell ’em about the money?”
“Yep. They’re so excited they said they was pitchin’ us a party tomorrow. Have a biscuit.”
Lying on his back on the floor of a fifteen-foot-square, rough wood room filled with saddles, harnesses, bridles, mecates, hackamores, and halters, Tap ate a biscuit and stared into the darkness.
He thought about crying dance-hall girls.
Bank loans.
Fighting Ed.
Outlaws with grudges.
The Arizona Territorial Prison at Yuma.
The wedding.
And Pepper.
Mostly he thought about Pepper.
6
W ith her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, Pepper stepped to the porch of the Franklin house and mopped the
“I didn’t see any activity at the house. Did you?”
Tap looked Stack in the face. “You figure we ought to go over and check on the women? They might be pretty excited to find out about the money.”
Stack sat down on his saddle and tugged at his black stove-top boots. “Let ’em sleep. That little one ain’t cryin’; they must be all right. There’s smoke in the chimney, so they’ve got the place warm.”
Within two minutes of pulling the dirty wool blankets over his shoulder, Tap fell asleep to the sounds of continuous church bells ringing and two thousand crickets chirping in his right ear.
The air was biting cold, his back was stiff, and the room was pitch-black when Tap blinked his eyes open. He moved his hand across the floor and pulled his Colt .44 from the holster.
Lord, somethin’s goin’ on. I can sense it, but I can’t see it . . . or hear it.
He stood to his feet. A sharp pain shot through his ribs. Barefoot, clutching the gun, he stole to the thin wooden door that separated the tack room from the main part of the barn.
A flicker of light filtered into the barn from the less than airtight siding. The dirt floor was cold on Tap’s feet as he scooted to the main barn door. He threw the latch on the door, swung the door open about eight inches, and peered toward the yard.
Standing not more than a foot in front of the door was a man, his face covered with a dark bandanna, a wide-brimmed hat pushed low. Tap raised and cocked the Colt in one action.
The man jerked the bandanna down immediately. “Whoa. Tap, it’s me—Wiley.”
“What?”
“Wiley. It’s me—Wiley,” he shouted.
“Oh . . . Wiley. Yeah.” Tap shoved the big barn door open and signaled for Wiley to bring his horse inside.
“Didn’t you hear me call out?”
Tap shuffled over and lit a lamp. Wiley tugged off his gloves and blew warm air into his hands.
“I said,” Wiley began, “why didn’t you . . .? Good grief. What happened to the side of your head?”
“I ran into a rifle barrel. Can’t hear worth beans. Talk to this other ear.”
“Did you get April’s and the girls’ money back?” Wiley ho llered.
“Yep. How ’bout you? Get them telegrams sent?”
“Yeah. I also got some news about Fightin’ Ed. He’s goin’ to move you out of here. He’s gone to see some of his friends at the Cheyenne Club.”
“Cheyenne? They don’t have anything to say about Col orado.”
“I hope you’re right. How are the girls?”
“What?”
“Girls! How are the girls?”
“We just pulled in a couple hours ago. We let ’em sleep.”
“One of ’em ain’t sleepin’.”
“What?”
“I rode by there and heard one of ’em cryin’.”
“It must be Rocky.”
“You and Stack take any lead?”
“Bed? Yeah, go on. Stack will take care of Rocky.”
Wiley shrugged and put his horse away. Tap woke Stack from a deep sleep. The groggy piano player tugged on his boots and coat and crunched across the yard to the house.
Several minutes later he returned carrying a pan covered by a checkered napkin in one hand and the little purple bottle in the other.
“How’s she doin’, Stack?”
“Better now. That was one happy girl when she saw this.” He held up the glass bottle. “They had some extra biscuits in the kitchen.”
“Did ya tell ’em about the money?”
“Yep. They’re so excited they said they was pitchin’ us a party tomorrow. Have a biscuit.”
Lying on his back on the floor of a fifteen-foot-square, rough wood room filled with saddles, harnesses, bridles, mecates, hackamores, and halters, Tap ate a biscuit and stared into the darkness.
He thought about crying dance-hall girls.
Bank loans.
Fighting Ed.
Outlaws with grudges.
The Arizona Territorial Prison at Yuma.
The wedding.
And Pepper.
Mostly he thought about Pepper.
6
W ith her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, Pepper stepped to the porch of the Franklin house and mopped the
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