Free My Foot's in the Stirrup . . . My Pony Won't Stand (Code of the West) by Stephen Bly

head to the left and began to circle him. Tracker and Cabe piled out of the wagon with guns drawn and took cover.
    Lord, it’s like I get throwed from one crisis to another.
    “Settle down, boy .  . . settle down. Whoa, boy . . . it’s okay.” He stopped the horse from spinning and patted the gray’s fear-tightened neck.
    There’s got to be a peaceful life and a peaceful horse—somewhere.
    With Roundhouse back in control, Tap hollered, “It’s all right, boys. Nothing to worry about now. Let’s get on up to the river.”
    “What about the other one?” Cabe bellowed from a safe p osition behind the buckboard.
    “He won’t follow. Not even Snake Dutton is that dumb.”
    They reached the North Platte within the hour. Tap turned them east toward the Nebraska line. Not much deeper than a foot, the river ran a sandy, caramel color and stretched a good hundred feet across. Willow, box elder, cottonwood, and ash trees lined both banks, with brush thick between them.
    One man couldn’t work that brush. Not at this time of the year with all the trees and bushes leafed out. There’s enough cover to hide cattle or rustlers or both. Someone ought to come up here in the winter and burn the brush.
    But not me.
    The river provided a ribbon of greenery in an otherwise buc kskin-colored landscape under an expansive blue Wyoming sky. Tap's bandanna drooped with sweat as he bounced and swayed in rhythm to Roundhouse’s steady trot. With toes hooked in the stirrups, knees pressed lightly against the horse’s flanks, back as straight as a schoolteacher’s ruler, he surveyed the distant horizon.
    Downriver he viewed a building. Tracker stopped the wagon and waited for Tap to catch up.
    “What’s up ahead?”
    “Ought to be Shaver’s Crossing. A little store and a ferry, I think. A friend of mine freights up here sometimes. He didn’t recommend the place. We could cross the river anywhere at this time of year. But you might want to put the wagon on the ferry. You could always hit a bog hole, I suppose.”
    “What will it cost?”
    “Probably $2.00 or $2.50 for the wagon. Maybe cheaper when the water’s low. If it weren’t for the bramble along the river, this land would be mighty good for grazin’.”
    “How many head would you suppose it could support?” Tracker asked.
    “Depends on how long you leave ’em, I reckon. They say it held ten thousand Indians and three hu ndred troops for a month.”
    “When was that? We’re not up near the Little Big Horn, are we?” Cabe quizzed.
    “Nope. That’s up past the Montana border. In ’51 they moved the Ft. Laramie Treaty Council from the Fort to right here at the head of Horse Creek. Ten thousand Sioux, Cheyennes, Arapahos, Crows, and Snakes gathered with a few government officials and about three hundred troops for a big powwow.”
    Jacob Tracker pulled off his hat and wiped his brow. “Must have been quite a sight.”
    “You said it.” Tracker, how come the top of your forehead isn’t lily-white like ever’ cowman I’ve ever known? No one works outside without a hat . . . except for prisoners.
    “Is that another creek leadin’ northeast?” Tracker pointed across the river.
    “I think it’s Spring Crick, but I’m not sure. You thinkin’ of lookin’ for a place around here?” Tap queried.
    “Nope. It’s too open.” Tracker seemed to be searching for words. “Not enough protection from cold winds, storms, and all that. You know what I mean?”
    Tap shoved his rifle, which had been draped across his lap, back into the scabbard as he stared at Jacob Tracker.
    Too open for what? Why is it I keep thinkin’ I’m not in on the whole plan here?
    “Andrews,” Cabe began, “you sure did drop that bushwhacker in a hurry. I thought you claimed they were friends of yours.”
    “Nope. They said they were friends. I only admitted I knew them. If you give me the choice between gettin’ killed or shootin’ back, I’ll shoot back ever’ time, no matter