My Foot's in the Stirrup ... My Pony Won't Stand

By Stephen Bly

Why is it when a gunman decides to call it quits, no one seems to listen? All Tap and Pepper want to do is settle down, buy a small, out-of-the-way ranch, get a few head of cattle, and start raising a family. After all, a baby's on the way. But it's not that easy for an ex-convict and former dance hall girl trying to break with their pasts. No matter where they go or what they do, they collide with the past and plenty of problems in the present. Meanwhile, Tap's current job as brand inspector for the cattle association keeps him smack dab in the middle of conflict. One day its holding off rustlers and avoiding ambushes. The next day it's babysitting Texas ranchers and trying to clear himself of murder charges. Or keep from getting shot and Pepper from having the baby too early. And his new horse won't stay still long enough for him to get on and stay on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bly Books
• Release date: Apr 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311301079

Stephen Bly

Stephen Bly (1944-2011) authored and co-authored with his wife, Janet Chester Bly, more than 100 books, both historical and contemporary fiction and nonfiction. He won the Christy Award in the category western novel for The Long Trail Home, from The Fortunes of the Black Hills Series. Other novels were Christy Award finalists: The Outlaw's Twin Sister, Picture Rock, and Last of the Texas Camp. His last novel, Stuart Brannon's Final Shot, finished with the help of his widow, Janet Chester Bly, and three sons--Russell, Michael, and Aaron--was a SELAH Award finalist. She just completed her first solo adult Indie novel, Wind in the Wires, Book 1, Trails of Reba Cahill.

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My Foot’s In The Stirrup ...

My Pony Won’t Stand

Stephen Bly

Copyright©2016 Janet Chester Bly Smashwords Edition

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For

The Wild Bunch

at Broken Arrow Crossin’

Chapter 1

Monday, August 27, 1883, ten miles north of Pine Bluffs, Wyoming Territory.

The bullet that struck Brownie seemed to fall straight out of the sky. When the horse went down, Tap Andrews didn’t know whether to dive right or left. Either way, he knew he had to come up firing.

He hit the dry Wyoming dirt with as much grace as a tree limb falling during a windstorm. His ribs slammed into the baked prairie ground. He jerked his leg free from under the struggling horse and squeezed one shot up the trail at the blue Wyoming sky, hoping to buy time for protection. Holding his ’73 Winchester parallel to his body, Tap rolled twenty feet into the prairie. The foot and a half tall buckskin-colored weeds supplied a little cover, if he kept his head down and didn’t move another muscle.

The second shot finished off the downed horse. The third ripped into the earth about ten feet from Tap. They were up the trail somewhere.

How can they see me without me seeing them?

He had nothing to hide behind until Lodgepole Creek. Where were they?

Another shot rang out, this time far to the right of the dead horse. Tap fought back the urge to lift his head to spy out his attackers.

Brownie, doggone it, you’ve been a good friend ever since I broke out of ATP at Yuma. I sorely regret your early demise.

He hoped to figure a way not to join his horse’s fate in the very near future. And it would have been more considerate if Brownie had fallen sideways to provide a better barrier. Tap wiggled to extract the rifle from under his body. Clutching the twenty-four-inch round-barreled Winchester, he raised the upper tang long-range peep sight. Another bullet tore the dirt halfway between him and Brownie.

Yeah, I know you’re up there.

But he didn’t know who or how many. He guessed maybe three ambushers. One of them rode a mare with a broken right rear shoe. And on the other side of that roll in the prairie grazed about sixty-four head of re-branded rustled cattle. He surmised someone about 150 to 200 yards away with a Sharps .50 caliber set up on a rock or shooting rest. They could hit a horse, but how about him when he’s shooting back?

Tap loosened the eye cup and cranked the sight up to the hand-filed notch about 180 yards, give or take a few. Once he tightened the eye cup in place, he pulled the hammer off the safety position and slid the dust cover back with his thumb. He spotted the brass cartridge already in the chamber. Lying flat in the grass, his right hand slipped into place around the trigger.

Another shot exploded dirt five feet to his right. They were getting closer.

Just give me one shot, if I have room.

A 400-grain lead bullet ripped into the hard clay soil two feet away. Dirt blasted his hands and face. At the report of the rifle, he raised up on one elbow and squeezed the rifle trigger aimed two inches below the brim of a distant brown hat. Tap tucked the gun to his side and rolled further away from Brownie. Several handgun shots rattled the earth in his general direction as the man with the brown hat collapsed on the crest of the gentle rolling prairie.

That’s one!

Lord, I don’t even know who I’m shootin’ at. If they’d just git up and ride away, it would be fine with me.

Gun smoke still hung in the still, heavy air over his previous position, attracting shots so widely scattered Tap worried about getting hit by chance. He cocked the rifle lever and waited in the short grass for another opportunity. He knew they were using pistols to flush him out. And saving the Sharps for when he rose up. He hoped the old boy holding the rifle was a good shot because if he scatter aimed, Tap could be in real trouble.

Flat on his stomach, he reached across his back and drew his Colt .44 out of the holster. Sweat puddled in the dust under his face as the heat baked his hatless head. Felt like 100˚ and not a cloud in the sky. He might as well be in Arizona. He drew the rifle with his right hand, and cocked the single-action Colt with the left.

If I don’t shoot myself, this might work.

Tap fired the revolver wildly into the air. A heavy puff of smoke hung above the weeds. He dropped the gun in the grass and rolled about three feet in Brownie’s direction. As he expected, the big-bore rifle blasted. A bullet ripped through the soil where the compressed weeds outlined his former position.

He focused on a narrow-brimmed black hat hunkered far ahead on the prairie crest and fired from his one-elbow position, then rolled even closer to Brownie in the thickest part of the weeds. Another man slumped down on Wyoming soil.

That’s two!

Of course, he could be wrong. There could be more than three of them.

He wanted to reach back for the dropped Colt, but it was too far away and in the line of fire of the main gunman. Tap cocked the lever-action rifle and tried to sense the man’s next move. If he was smart, he’d take all the horses and ride off. He knew Tap couldn’t follow him. But it was pride now. He wouldn’t back out. An at least three-to-one ambush was pretty good odds. Only these guys picked a lousy place. They had to commit at 200 yards. Can’t shoot a man in the back that way.

Random shots kicked up dirt around Tap’s position. Cheek flat to the dirt, a sharp sting caused him to slap himself.

Ants?

Big red ants!

He brushed them off in the weeds and drew a bullet five feet in front of him. Tap tried his best to shake the ants off his arms without revealing his position as they swarmed closer. He had to do something quick. He eased the buckhorn knife out of his boot and nested it beside him, then he tugged off his red bandanna.

Why were the weeds shorter on his right? Why did it work that way? He’d have to roll on top those blasted ants.

Scooting the knife and bandanna above his head, he kept his head low. Then he tied the bandanna to the buck-horn handle and slowly transferred the Winchester to his left hand. Clutching the knife in his right, he extended it as far out as he could, then jabbed it into the hard dirt. As the red bandanna flagged the knife’s position, Tap rolled left into the ants and up on his elbow.

The Sharps bullet shattered the large Bowie buckhorn handle, but Tap’s bullet found its mark. The distant gunman dropped next to his accomplices. Tap waited, then raised with caution to his knees, his finger tight on the Winchester trigger. No sound or movement, but three bites stung his left arm. One dug into his left side. Tap leaped to his feet and hollered in torment. He brushed and slapped the ants through his rough grey cotton shirt as sharp stings scattered to his back, arms, and neck.

He holstered his Colt, scooted up the hill, and pointed his rifle the direction of the downed gunmen. He tore open his shirt. Even the heat of the sun felt cooler on his bare chest than the fiery bites of the swarming red ants. When he reached the crest of the prairie roll, he found all three men dead, each one shot several inches below the brim of their hats.

You boys didn’t give me nothin’ else to aim at.

He gazed to the north at sixty-four head of TS beef crudely re-branded I8I. Dropping his Winchester, he yanked off his shirt, and his suspenders hung down the side of his chap-encased britches. He rubbed himself all over, shook his shirt hard, and tossed it across his shoulder. Then he rolled the gunmen on their backs.

It wasn’t worth it, boys. Givin’ up your life for rustled cattle wasn’t a good bargain. You should have gone to work for the railroad or a coal mine and earned an honest dollar. But you made your choice. May God have mercy on your souls. I don’t even know your names or if you were workin’ on your own or for someone else.

Both legs got attacked. Tap swatted them as he danced across the prairie, the stings so intense he hardly noticed a large wagon pulled by a team of four mules rattle up the draw. Tap clutched his shirt, buttoned his britches, pulled the suspenders up on his bare shoulders, and retrieved his Winchester.

A young man in his late teens or early twenties with round face, easy smile and wearing a tattered bowler and bare start of a mustache pulled the wagon up to the three scattered bodies. Saw you dancin’ around from a mile back. What happened?

Tap shuddered as he kneaded his arms. It’s those red demons. He bent over and scratched his legs through worn brown leather chaps and tan canvas duckings.

You had a run-in with Injuns?

No, ants. They’re about to eat me alive.

The young man’s blue eyes widened. Ants killed them three on the ground?

Tap slapped at his hair. No, I shot them, but I was layin’ in a bed of ants.

The man reached under the wagon seat. Tap swung his rifle toward him.

You goin’ to kill me, too? the young man blurted out.

Not unless you pull out a gun.

Fair enough. The gun stays put. What happened here?

These three have been rustlin’ some of Tom Slaughter’s TS beef. I tracked them down this far and they jumped me.

Who are they?

Don’t know.

You know Slaughter?

Yeah, I work for him and several other ranchers. I’m the brand inspector.

No foolin’? I’d like to see Slaughter about a job myself, the young man said. Is he still in Pine Bluffs?

Yep, provided he didn’t go into Cheyenne or Denver to do business. If you got a shovel, I’d like to borrow it, if I might.

Sure. You goin’ to bury these men?

Nope. I’m going to bury my horse.

Really. I never heard of a man burying a horse out here on the prairie.

Brownie’s been a good partner to me. I aim to see the coyotes and vultures don’t pick his bones. It’s the least I can do.

Well, I’ll be.

Tap caught the shovel tossed to him. I'd be obliged if you could take a message and these three hombres into town.

You want me to haul the bodies in?

I’ll load them up for you.

How about those ponies?

I’ll round them up and bring them myself. You pullin’ an empty rig? Tap jabbed at his itchy face.

I regret to admit that I am. They’re all gone, you know.

What’s all gone?

The buffalo. I won this hidin’ outfit in a poker game in Custer City and worked my way down from the Black Hills. I didn’t find even one shaggy back. They’re gone like they was ghosts. You interested in buyin’ a hidin’ outfit? I’ll sell you ever’thing cheap.

Nope, sorry. Not interested, son.

As Tap pushed the third body into the wagon, the young man pulled all three forward and unfolded a canvas over the top of them. What about them bovines? You going to leave them out here for Sioux bait?

I’ll gather the ponies and stick with the herd until Tom Slaughter sends some boys out to drive them home. Tell him I’m at the head of Antelope Draw. Tap slipped on his shirt and scraped his arms.

I don’t envy you digging a hole big enough for a horse in this hard dirt. You got a hat?

Down the slope a ways. Thanks, son, I appreciate your help. If you’re still in Pine Bluffs when I get home, I’ll buy you supper.

I’ll take you up on that, mister, but I can’t figure how one man can get ambushed on the open prairie and take out three. What did you say your name was?

Tap Andrews.

Andrews? The young man gaped. You related to that deputy that took on Del Gatto’s gang a few months back over at Cheyenne?

Yeah, you might say we’re related.

I read about that in Deadwood. You’re him, ain’t ya?

Tap studied him with some caution. Yeah, I’m him.

No kiddin’? So I met the famous Tapadera Andrews.

I’m afraid it isn’t much of an honor.

Yeah, it ain’t like meetin’ Wyatt Earp, Bill Cody, or Stuart Brannon, but you sure stirred up some interest in Deadwood. Some of ’em thought the city ought to send down for you to come be the town marshal. But those who wanted that got shot the next day. Most folks have let the matter pass.

Good choice. I’ve retired from marshalin’. Too much shootin’.

So, what do you call this? Ain’t exactly a Sunday school picnic I’m haulin’ in my wagon.

You’re right about that.

You know what? I’m goin’ to make a name for myself someday. I’ll be right there in the newspaper with the rest of you famous hombres.

What’s your name, son?

Robert Leroy Parker.

Well, Robert Leroy Parker, you hire on with Tom Slaughter and learn the business. One of these days you’ll be some rich Front Range rancher yourself. Maybe the Cheyenne Daily Leader will want you to run for governor.

No, sir, I don’t think I’ll go into ranchin’. Parker flashed his wide, easy grin. Too much work.

That’s exactly what those three in the wagon must have thought. See you in town.

The young man drawled, Well, sir, next time we meet, you can call me Butch.

The wagon rolled south raising dust with every creak of the wheels.

Pepper Andrews pulled back a flowered cotton curtain that served as a pantry door. She gazed at several airtight jars on the top shelf, stacked exactly one inch apart. Each showed traces of fine red dust.

The room stretched the full width of the house, but was barely eight feet deep. The former covered back porch now served as pantry, sewing room, and bedroom.

She hiked to the door that swung open to a hard-packed dirt backyard that sloped in the shade of two giant cotton-woods. Angelita, she called.

If she went down to the stockyards again, Tap will be furious. Why is it 'I’m going out to the backyard to play' never meant that.

Angelita!

Pepper paused to enjoy the slight movement that was almost a breeze in the hot summer air. She didn’t glance down at the tight shoes because she knew she couldn’t see them. She reached around her apron string to massage the throbbing pain in her lower back. Before long she wouldn’t be able to tie her apron at all.

Lord, I’m glad Angelita is with us. She has been good company for me. But I would enjoy it more if You’d keep her out of trouble.

She had to be the most ambitious ten-year-old ever created. Would it be too much to ask if she might settle down a little? Real soon?

Pepper closed the door and gave up on the idea of dusting the pantry. She scooted through the small kitchen into the front room of the neatly painted Amarillo Street wood-frame house. She studied herself in a mirror hung over a tiny table next to the front door. Still the same blonde hair. Green eyes. Crooked nose. Freckles. Tired looking face. But last time, she didn’t show until almost seven months. Last time, she was hardly sick a day, until those final horrible two weeks. Last time her back didn’t ache, feet didn’t swell, and legs didn’t break out in a rash.

Last time ... I lost the baby.

Pepper brushed back a tear. Mrs. Andrews, your husband says you look ‘fleshed out’ a little. I look fat. I feel fat. Two more months. Oh, joy. If