It's Your Misfortune and None of My Own (Code of the West) by Stephen Bly Page A

that draw. We’ll push ’em down there and then leave ’em. I imagine some of the Rafter R boys will spot ’em in a day or two. It’s gettin’ late. If we don’t get a good moon among these clouds, it might be a long ride home in the dark.”
    They had ridden halfway down the slope when a rifle shot burned the air near Tap’s head, and he heard the report from the trees. He dove for Brownie’s neck, shifting to the right side and swinging down, Indian-style. Spurring the pony, he raced toward a buckskin pine that leaned like a broken flagpole, offering the only shelter besides the trees that housed the attacker.
    Reaching the standing dead tree, Tap pulled his Winche ster and jumped off the horse, allowing it to wander on down the mountain. Flipping up the long-range sight mounted on the upper tang, he took aim on the trees and waited for someone to show himself.
    This is just like Arizona. I’ve been here two days, and a lready someone is taking a shot at me! I don’t even know anyone in Wyoming, do I? Besides, they can’t see from that far away. How do they know who I am?
    After a few minutes, Tap saw two riders swing out deep to the left and three start out to the right.
    They think they’re going to flank me? I’ll put one on the ground right now.
    He took aim on the one riding a blue roan. The small peep hole centered on the man’s chest. He cocked the hammer and began to pull the trigger.
    A blue roan? Wiley was ridin’ a . . . Wiley? Quail? These are Rafter R boys. And they don’t have any idea who I am or whether I’m bringing cattle back or stealin’ ’ em. That was mighty close, Andrews. If you don’t get yourself under control, you may never live long enough to get to that weddin’.
    As the men circled in the distance, Tap pulled off his ba ndanna and tied it to the end of his rifle. I don’t have a white one, but red ought to get their attention.
    He looked up to see a short man and the man on the blue roan swing together toward his position. The others stopped their circling and waited.
    “At the buckskin,” the little man hollered. “You want to talk before we kill you?”
    Tap knew he could drop both men before they even had a chance to return fire.
    That would leave it three to one. Think like Hatcher. You’re not John Wesley Hardin. And you’re not John Wesley.
    “Mister, there isn’t one chance in a thousand of any of you five gettin’ the drop on me. Wiley, is that you on the blue roan?”
    The young man sat straight up and pushed his hat back. “Who’s calling me out?”
    “Tap .  . . eh, Tap Hatcher from down on the Triple Creek Ranch.”
    “Tap? What in tarnation are you doin’ across the state line?”
    “Is the mouthy one with you the boss?”
    “Eh .  . . this is Fightin’ Ed Casey. He owns the outfit.”
    “Tell him to shove the rifle back in the scabbard, and let’s talk this out. No reason for men to die today.”
    “How do we know we can trust you, Hatcher?” Casey yelled.
    “I don’t trust you for a minute, but I’ll trust Wiley. Send him up, and let me give him a message.”
    “How do I know you won’t kill him?” Casey shouted.
    “How do you know I won’t shoot you right now?” Tap countered. “If Wiley doesn’t trust me, he doesn’t have to come up.”
    The two men said something to each other. Then Wiley rode straight up to him.
    “Tap, you about got yourself shot.”
    “Wiley, I hate to mention how long I had you in this peep sight before I figured out who it was. Now, listen, tell good old Fightin’ Ed that I found a longhorn bull with an old Rafter R brand, but I couldn’t get him talked into goin’ home. But I rounded up his family and drove them down here. I’m just bein’ neighborly tryin’ to help you boys out. Tell him I’m not drivin’ them off. I’m bringin’ them home.”
    “That ain’t the problem, Tap,” Wiley replied. “Fightin’ Ed is convinced you’re workin’ for them Boston