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

what?” Tap grinned.
    “He’s been goin’ on like that since this mornin’. Don’t pay him no mind. He thinks he’s King Frederick. Whatever you do, don’t buy him a drink. We’ll never get him to leave. What can I get you, mi ster?”
    “I was hopin’ for a good cup of coffee and a look at your dry goods.”
    “Dry goods? I’ll sell you the whole store if you’re interested. I’ll get you some coffee, but I’ll tell you the gospel truth—it ain’t worth drinkin’ except if you’re half-asleep or full-drunk.”
    The man worked a wad of tobacco from between his teeth and spat it toward the floor behind the bar.
    “Anything in particular you lookin’ fer in dry goods? Got some mighty fine canvas britches from San Francisco. Mr. Strauss makes a superior pair of overall jeans.”
    Tap took the tin cup of lukewarm coffee and swished it around to see how many grounds were floating in it. One swig of bitter, gritty brew caused him to shove his hat back and shudder. “Actually I was lookin’ for some baby clothes. You don’t happen to have anything like that, do you?”
    The bartender, who wore a well-used brown leather vest over his long-sleeved tan cotton shirt, pointed toward a trunk in the corner. “That whole trunk is full of baby clothes. It was sittin’ right there when I bought the store seven years ago. It ain’t moved, and I ain’t sold nothin’ out of it. I’ll sell you the trunk and ever’thing in it for five cash dollars.”
    “Let me take a look. The wife’s expectin’, and it would be nice to help her out with some new goods.”
    “I didn’t say they was new. I think some pilgrim traded it for a ferry crossin’ years ago. It’s all used, but it’s folded in there neat enough.”
    “If you don’t mind, I’d like to sort through it.”
    “Help yourself. Remember, the whole batch for five dollars. You do have that much cash on you, don’t you?”
    Tap glanced at the card game and back at the two men at the bar. Resting his right hand on the grip of his .44 Colt, he stared at the man. “Do you?”
    “Do I what?” the bartender asked.
    “Do you have five cash dollars in that cigar box under the bar?”
    The man ran the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes narrowed. “What I got or ain’t got in my poke is none of your blasted business.”
    “I couldn’t agree with you more. I surely don’t need to know what’s in your poke, and you don’t need to know what’s in mine. If I don’t die from drinkin’ the coffee, I’ll sort through that trunk now.”
    He found the clothes moth-eaten and musty but neatly folded. He was about to close the trunk when Tracker and Cabe pushed their way into the building. From the far corner of the room, Tap watched as they strolled over to the bar.
    You boys playin’ cards seem mighty interested in those two. You don’t happen to be plottin’ some corrupt scheme, are you?
    The mumbling man at the bar continued to blab.
    The slumbering man slept on.
    Two of the men at the card table shoved their chairs back and rested their hands on the grips of their holstered revolvers.
    A bearded man at the table who perspired through his white shirt, reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a gold watch, then loosened his tie.
    Tap hunkered behind the open trunk as if checking out the goods. He couldn’t hear Tracker and Cabe's conversation, but he figured they must have ordered something because the bartender set an amber bottle and two glasses in front of them.
    “You fellas passin’ through?”
    Tracker said something, but Tap could only hear the bartender’s reply. “Lookin’ fer work, are ya?”
    Again there was some response that Tap couldn’t hear.
    “That’s good, ’cause there ain’t much work around here.”
    The bartender nodded as Tracker and Cabe talked. “You don’t say. Goin’ to buy a ranch, huh? Well, this side of the river Swan Land and Cattle’s got about ever’thing tied up. They tell me he’s runnin’