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

who’s holdin’ the gun. I figure the Lord’s got my days numbered, but I don’t want any dimwit with a gun tryin’ to shortchange me.”
    “Then how do me and Tracker know you won’t be takin’ a shot at us? You plannin’ on shootin’ me?” Cabe challenged.
    “If I felt my life was in danger, I wouldn’t give it a second thought. Boot Hill is full of men who waited too long. Take old Texas Jay back there. He was plannin’ on sneakin’ up behind and shootin’ me in the back. But he was nervous and didn’t sneak up nearly close enough. As soon as I whirled around and threw my rifle to my shoulder, it gave him a se cond thought about the matter. When he finally decided to go ahead and pull the trigger, he felt he had to hurry his shot and pulled it to the left.”
    “I ain’t the type to give it a second thought neither,” Cabe i nsisted. “If I get the first shot, you’re a dead man.”
    “It’ll be a frigid day in hades when you get the drop on me. You’ve got a .45 on ya. Go for it.”
    “Oh, I’ll do it, but it'll be my way.”
    “Whoa,” Tracker intervened. “You’re both on the same side this time. Let’s ride up to the store and grab ourselves a stiff drink. A ndrews, you figure on campin’ in the willows tonight?”
    “Nope. That would be like settin’ bandit bait in those thic kets. I’d like to cross the river and camp up against the hills. Besides, I never like puttin’ off a river crossin’.”
    “At least we can stop long enough to have that shot of whiskey,” Cabe put in.
    “You boys get what you need. I don’t drink. Think I’ll check out the dry goods.”
    “I’ve never met a shootist who didn’t drink.”
    “You probably never met one that went to church either.”
    “No. Don’t reckon so.”
    “You ever met an old gunfighter?  I aim to be the first. Besides, I’m not a shootist anymore. I’m a brand inspector.”
    “Yeah, and I’m a lawyer,” Cabe scoffed.
    The store at Shaver’s Crossing had at one time been an important stop on the Oregon Trail. Thousands of immigrant wagons had crossed the North Platte there, years before a bridge spanned the river near Ft. Laramie. The transcontinental railroad all but eliminated the need for wagons west, and by 1883 Shaver’s was not much more than a crumbling log cabin saloon with one wall of mostly overpriced and outdated dry goods.
    Four bored horses stood tied to a rail outside the front of the store. An old farm wagon with two black horses still hitched stood abandoned askew in the box elders near the river. The gray brush corrals behind the building held two mules, a tall swayback mare, and three weeks’ worth of u nshoveled manure. Several log rounds lounged across the front porch, waiting to be used for temporary seating.
    The two windows in the front of the building were boarded up, giving the impression that the place was permanently closed. Scrawled in faded red paint on one of the boards were the words, “This saloon is open.” The sign on the other boarded window was equally rustic. “Goods in Endless Var iety.” Two razor-thin dogs fought with a half-grown hog over the garbage that had been tossed out into the front yard.
    Tracker pulled the buckboard over by the trees and at once got into some sort of argument with Cabe. Tap ignored them and tied Roundhouse up next to a black gelding that was losing a battle with a swarm of gnats around his eyes. Swatting two mosquitos off the back of his hand and sucking in a big breath of musty stench, Tap entered the dimly lit building.
    An emotionless card game occupied four expressionless men with grimy hats and worn-out faces. At the bar a short man with a round hat stared into a shot glass devoid of whiskey. Tap couldn’t tell if he was asleep or dead. He certainly wasn’t moving. The other man at the bar waved his hands with every word he spoke, but no one listened.
    Tap sauntered over to the bartender.
    “That old boy talk his partner to death or