Read Stay Away From That City . . . They Call It Cheyenne (Code of the West) for Free Online

lynch him?”
    “I’m guessin’ his friends. The lynchin’ crowd likes to work in the dark. Besides, most of them are too poor to own horses. I figure that might thin down their ranks. Those dro vers know they better do somethin’ quick before Hager ends up bein’ tree trimmin’.”
    “Where do you reckon they’ll be waitin’?”
    “I figure it’s too open ’til we cross the Salt Lake Road and Lodgepole Creek.”
    “Maybe in those hills before Carey’s place?”
    “Yeah. That would be as good a spot as any. But it’s quite a ways down the trail.”
    “We goin’ to wait until they shoot at us?”
    “As long as we stay near that laundry sack, I figure his friends won’t do much shootin’.”
    Clouds congregated against the Laramie Mountains to the west, but the sky remained blue above them. The temper ature dropped as the afternoon progressed. Tap and Stack talked about dance halls . . . mutual friends . . . good race horses . . . the benefits of married life . . . and the money to be made in the freighting business. Mostly they watched every rock, boulder, and coulee for any signs of ambush.
    The sun inched down into the cloudy western sky, and all they had spotted were hundreds of pronghorns and a few slinking coy otes.
    “Where do you usually camp for the night?” Tap asked.
    “Up near Swan’s headquarters.”
    “At Chugwater?”
    “Yeah. Look up there.” Stack Lowery pointed to the large boulders north of them. “That pass looks like a good place to jump someone.”
    “Pull up and rest the horses.”
    “What?”
    “Let’s park it right up there in the rocks and give ’em a good chance.”
    “Dad gum it, Tap, we don’t have to wear ‘Shoot Me’ signs on our hats.”
    “Come on, Stack. It beats the boring life of a teamster, doesn’t it?”
    The big man slid a shotgun from under the seat and broke it open to check the chambers. He rubbed the road dust off his face with the red bandanna that hung around his neck, and then he roared, “Jist like bacon in the pan, boys. Come and get it.”
    Racing up the hill, Stack drove the wagon to the east side of the road, slipped to the ground, and checked the rigging on the mules. He carried the shotgun in his left hand and kept one eye on the tall boulders on the west side of the road. Several scrub cedars and piñon pines struggled for existence among the rocks and baked red ground.
    “Well, boss man, what are we goin’ to do?” Stack mumbled beneath his breath. “Wait for one of us to get shot?” He turned to see that Tap had his pistol pointed at the sack full of jail blankets and bricks.
    “How about gettin’ me a ladle of water from the barrel?” Tap asked.
    “You bust a leg or somethin’?”
    “I’ve got to stay up here and guard the prisoner,” Tap ho llered in a loud voice.
    “Eh .  . . yeah . . . right.” Stack pried off the barrel lid, scooped with the wooden ladle, and handed it, brimming with water, up to Tap.
    “This is mighty silly if there ain’t no one watchin’ us,” Stack hec kled.
    “I was thinkin’ the same thing.”
    Stack mumbled as he swung back up on the driver’s seat of the wagon, “How long are we goin’ to stay here?”
    “You guard the prisoner. I’ll go back and check on my po nies.”
    “You mean I got to hold a gun on a sack of blankets and bricks?”
    “Yeah, but be careful. Don’t let him get the drop on you.”
    Stack took a deep breath. “Hager, you’re in a fine fix. Back in town most folks want to hang you, and out here you’re hogtied and travelin' with that madman, Tap A ndrews. You better mind your p’s and q’s. Andrews is known to just haul off and gut-shoot a man for lookin’ cross-eyed at him. Why, you got about as much chance escapin’ as an Easter egg in an orphanage. Jist between you and me, you’d have a better gamble with a lynch mob than Mr. Tapadera Andrews.”
    Faking a loud whisper, Stack continued talking to the stuffed laundry bag. “I hear