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

girls go?”
    “I heard they were on their way to Wyomin’.”
    “Don’t that beat all? Country without a dance hall—it’s a lonely place, ain’t it? How about that yellow-haired girl? She go up to Wyomin’, too?”
    “The one called Pepper?”
    “Yeah, that’s her. A firecracker, she is. I once seen her get the drop on old Jordan Beckett—jist a week or two before he died. There ain’t many in this country that ever got the drop on old Beckett . . . exceptin’ that Arizony gunslinger that finally gunned him down. What about that yellow-haired girl?”
    “Didn’t you hear? She’s marryin’ that Arizona gunslinger.”
    “No foolin’? Mister, I’m glad you told me that. That’s one man I surely don’t aim to ever sit at the same table with. No, sir.”
    “I hear he’s as tough as old Stuart Brannon,” Tap added tr ying hard not to smile.
    “I heard that, too, but I don’t rightly believe it.” Half-Beard looked around the room for a spittoon. “What time did you say the action’s goin’ to commence around here anyway?”
    Out of the corner of his eye Tap spied the man called Hank push open the door and scope the room. “I reckon it’s just about to get started.”

     
     
     
    5
     
    T he unshaven man stomped over to the bartender and waded into an animated conversation. The man’s gun was hung low on his hip for all to see below his jacket, but Tap knew it was too low to be a real threat.
    Tap spoke softly to Half-Beard. “Think I’ll get a refill of co ffee. It’s as bitter as sin, but it’s hot. You need a cup?”
    “Coffee? Shoot, I ain’t got drunk enough for coffee—yet.” He poured himself another shot from the amber unlabeled bottle in front of him. He spilled a few drops on his dirty fi ngers, which he promptly lapped up.
    The bartender pointed toward the big, round table in the back just as Tap slipped behind the woodstove and refilled his tin cup. Standing in the shadows, he watched Hank stalk to the back of the saloon, his right hand resting on the ha ndle of the revolver in its black, slick, concho-studded leather holster.
    Mister, you’ll be dead before you ever get that high enough to squeeze off a shot.
    “Hey, old man. Are you the one who claims to have a message from Jimmy Ray?” Hank’s voice sounded high and taut.
    Half-Beard looked up and glanced around the room. “You talkin’ to me?”
    “What’s it look like?” Hank growled.
    “Do I have a message from who?”
    Hank drew his revolver halfway out of the holster. “You heard me, mister,” he barked.
    Half-Beard ignored the man and poured himself another drink, wiping his mouth on his canvas coat sleeve. Just as Hank got his gun out of the holster, Tap stepped up behind him. Grabbing Hank by the greasy coat collar, he jammed his own Colt in the man’s back, shielding his gun from all in the room except -Half-Beard.
    “Just lay that hog leg of yours nice and gentle on the table and sit down, Hank. It’s time to talk.”
    Bending his neck around to an awkward position, Hank e xclaimed, “You! Why, I ought to—”
    “You do remember that I don’t hesitate to shoot a man, don’t you? I’m sure Jimmy Ray hasn’t forgot. Unless you dumped him along the trail and sold his horse and saddle.” Tap dragged the man to the back wall and shoved him into an empty chair. Then he sat next to Hank, never loosing his grip on the collar or the .44. From this vantage, Tap’s gun couldn’t be seen by anyone, and he could still keep an eye on the whole room. No one even glanced back at them.
    “I see you two have met before. If you plan on pullin’ that trigger, I’d like to move away a tad. This here’s my only coat. I don’t aim to get it all blood-splattered so early in the season.”
    “That depends upon old Hank here. If he tries somethin’ dumb, I’ll be forced to send a bullet right about—there!” He jabbed Hank in the back with the pistol barrel. “I’d guess the bullet would pass clean