Several TF riders had come to town, and the story of what had happened at the TF ranch was beginning to spread throughout the rapidly shrinking town. The TF gunhawks were drinking and laughing in the Blue Dog Saloon, telling the story of how Paul Jackson braced Tilden Franklin and how Paul had flopped around on the ground like a headless chicken after Tilden started putting lead into the man.
Stonewall stepped into the saloon just in time to hear the story being told for the umpteenth time. Each time it had been told with a bit more embellishment. Stonewall had not really cared much for Paul Jackson, but Jackson had been a decent sort of fellow…if a bit off in the head. But he had been no thief or footpad, just a hardworking guy who deserved a better death than the one he’d received.
The deputy said as much to the gunhands.
The saloon suddenly became very quiet as the TF gunslicks set their shot glasses and beer mugs on the bar and turned to face Stonewall.
“You makin’ light of Mister Franklin, Deputy?” a gunslinger asked.
Stonewall thought about that for a few seconds. “Yeah,” he said. “I reckon I am. A fair shootin’ is one thing. Torturin’ a man for sport is another thing.”
“Well, Mister Franklin ain’t here to defend hisself.”
“You here,” Stonewall said softly.
Monte took that time to step onto the boardwalk.
The TF gunhawks jerked iron and Stonewall matched their draw. The Blue Dog started yelping and barking with gunfire. Monte stepped through the batwing doors, his hands full of Colts. Stonewall was leaning against the bar, hard hit, but he had managed to drop two of the TF gunslingers. The front of Stonewall’s shirt was stained with blood.
Monte’s Colts started belching smoke and fire and lead. Two more TF riders went down, but not before Monte was hit twice, in the side and upper chest.
Stonewall died on his feet, his gun still clutched in his fingers. Monte was knocked back against a wall, losing one Colt on the way. He lifted his second Colt and got lead into the last remaining TF gunslick before he slid into darkness.
The wounded TF rider stumbled outside and made it to his horse, galloping out of town, holding onto the saddle horn with bloody fingers. Joel ran out of the sheriff’s office and lifted his rifle. The TF rider twisted in the saddle and shot the deputy through the head before he could get off a shot.
Dave jumped into the saddle and took off after the TF gunslick. He ran slap into a dozen TF riders, on their way into town, the wounded TF rider in the middle of the pack. Dave was literally shot out of the saddle, a dozen holes in him.
Slim turned in his saddle and said, “Singer, take him back to the ranch with you.” He indicated the wounded gunhawk. “And tell Mister Franklin that Fontana is ours!”
Dave was left where he had fallen, the deputy’s horse standing over its master, nudging at Dave with its nose.
Bob Colby reined up in Smoke’s yard in a cloud of dust. “Mister Smoke!” he hollered.
Smoke and Sally both ran from the cabin. “What’s the matter, Bob?”
“Mister Luke tole me to tell you to come quick. Tilden Franklin’s men done took over Fontana and this time they done ’er good. Sheriff Carson is hard hit, and all his deputies is dead!”
“Where’s Johnny?”
“He took Ma over to a neighbor’s house, then said he would meet you at Big Rock.”
“I’m on my way, Bob.”
Smoke instructed some of the old gunfighters to stay at the ranch in case any TF riders might choose to attack either the ranch or Ralph’s new cabin, and told Ralph to keep his butt close by, and to carry his rifle wherever he went.
Smoke and the old gunslingers lit out for Big Rock.
“’Bout time,” Pistol Le Roux muttered. “I was beginnin’ to think we wasn’t never gonna see no action.”
In the town of Fontana, the bully-boys who made up Tilden Franklin’s army were having a fine ol’ time exercising their muscle on the citizens.
The Silver Dollar Kid and the punk who called himself Sundance were strutting up and down the boardwalk, shooting at signs and anything else they took a mind to fire at.
Big Mamma lay on the floor of her pleasure palace, her head split open from a rifle butt. A few of the TF riders were busying themselves with her stable of red-light girls. Free of charge.
At Beeker’s store, the shopkeeper and his wife had barricaded themselves in a sturdy storeroom. They huddled together, listening to the rampaging TF gunslicks loot their store.
Billy lay in the loft of the stable, watching it all, his .22 rifle at the ready, in case any of the TF riders tried to hurt him.
Louis Longmont sat in his gaming room, rifling a deck of cards. His Colts were belted around his lean waist. A rifle and double-barreled shotgun lay on a table. Mike sat across the room, armed with two pistols and a rifle. Louis was not worried about any TF riders attempting to storm his place. They knew better.
Colton and Mona Spalding and Haywood and Dana Arden sat in the newspaper office, listening to the occasional bursts of gunfire from the town.
All had made up their mind they were leaving Fontana at the first chance. Perhaps to Big Rock, perhaps clear out of the state.
And at his general store, Ed Jackson and his wife were being terrorized.
13
“How in the hell did they manage to tree the town?” Smoke asked.
“I reckon the townspeople—them that’s left—was in shock over the sheriff and his deputies bein’ gunned down the way they was,” Luke said. “And Tilden’s bunch just overpowered them that stood to fight.”
“How many men are we looking at?” Silver Jim asked.
“I’d say over a hundred,” Charlie replied. “But Beaconfield sent word in about two hours ago that Tilden left a good-sized bunch at the ranch. I’d say he’s got a good hundred and twenty-five to a hundred and fifty men under his command.”
“You got any ideas, Smoke?”
“Where is Monte?”
“At the Doc’s clinic. He’s hanging on, so I was told.”
“Judge Proctor?”
“Out of town. Denver, I think,” Luke said.
Smoke paced the street in front of the large general store of Big Rock. “It would be foolish for us to try to retake the town. If we leave here, Tilden would probably send his men from the ranch to take this place, burn it probably. And any ranch or farm up here he could find.”
“You’re right,” Hunt Brook said.
“Damn!” Charlie said. “I hate to just sit here and do nothing, but I don’t know what else we can do.”
“I just wish I knew what was going on down at Fontana,” Wilbur said.
Smoke grimaced. “I got a pretty good idea.”
Smoke was silent for a moment. “I hope Billy is all right. I should have got that kid out of there before this.”
The men fell silent, all looking in the direction of Fontana.
A group of TF riders had stripped Peg Jackson naked and were raping her, enjoying her screaming. Ed Jackson had been trussed up like a hog and tossed to the floor, forced to watch his wife being violated.
“You don’t understand,” Ed kept saying. “I like and respect Mister Franklin. We’re friends.”
One TF rider named Belton got tired of listening to Ed and kicked him in the mouth, then in the stomach. Ed lay on the floor, vomiting up blood and bits of teeth and the ham and eggs he’d had for breakfast.
Peg continued screaming as yet another TF gunhand took her.
In Louis’s gaming tent, the gambler looked at his bouncer. “Mike, go get our horses and bring them around to the back. And if you find that boy, Billy, bring him along. I’m thinking that at full dark, when those rowdies get enough booze in them, they’ll rush us. I’d like to get that boy out of this place.”
“Yes, sir, Mister Longmont,” Mike said, and was gone into the night.
Louis looked at the roulette wheels, the faro cue boxes, the card presses, the keno gooses…all the other
paraphernalia of gambling.
“I shall not be needing any of it,” Louis muttered. “When I again gamble, it will be in the company of ladies and gentlemen…with champagne and manners and breeding.”
He rose from his chair, picked up his weapons, and walked into the back of the tent.
Mike returned in less than fifteen minutes, with saddled horses and Billy in tow.
“Any trouble?” Louis asked.
“One TF rowdy braced me,” the huge bouncer replied. “I broke his neck.”
The men and the boy mounted up. Andre said, “I will not miss this miserable place.”
“Nor will I, Andre,” Louis said. He pointed his horse’s nose toward the high lonesome. “Quiet now,” he cautioned. “Ride light until we’re clear of the town.”
“Boss?” Mike said. “Them thugs is rapin’ the shopkeeper’s woman. I could hear her screamin’.”
Louis’ face was tight as he said, “If she’s lucky, that’s all they’ll do.”
They cleared the town and then rode hard for the town of Big Rock.
“Grim,” was Louis’s one-word reply to Smoke’s asking about Fontana.
“Can’t we ride for the Army?” Hunt asked.
“Nearest Army post is four days away,” Smoke explained. “And the next stage isn’t due for twenty-four hours. If then.” He looked at the old gunfighter called Buttermilk. “Think you boys could handle those gunhawks left at the TF ranch?”
Buttermilk smiled his reply.
“All right. Leave Dad Weaver and three others at the Sugarloaf. One in the barn with a rifle and lots of shells. Let me have Crooked John and Bull, and the rest of you take off to the TF. Pin ’em down and wear ’em down with rifle fire, then cut ’em down when they get enough and try to pull out.”
Buttermilk nodded and turned to his compadres. “Let’s ride, boys!”
Louis smiled. “Those old boys will lay up on the ridges around the TF spread and put so much lead in that house those gunhawks will be crying to get out.”
“Those old men will allow their adversaries to surrender, won’t they?” Hunt asked.
Louis cut his eyes to the lawyer. “You just have to be joking!”
Crooked John and Bull rode with Louis, Smoke, and Johnny North. Pearlie stayed behind with Luke and Charlie. The men rode slowly, sparing their horses, and making plans as they rode.
“I think we should let them get good and drunk,” Louis remarked. “A full twenty-five percent of them will be passed out by night. That will make our work easier.”
“Good idea,” Johnny said. “And we need to get Monte outta there. Come night, I’ll slip in from the blind side, through all them shacks that was left behind, and get to the Doc’s place. We can hitch up the horses, put some hay in the back to keep Monte comfortable, and point the pilgrims on the way to Big Rock.”
Smoke nodded his approval. “All right. While you’re doing that, I’ll ease in and see about Ed and his wife. Johnny, let’s make it a mite easier for us. Bull, you and Crooked John create a diversion on this end of town. At full dark. You can leave your horses in that dry run behind the stable. Louis, how about you?”
Louis smiled. “I’ll be doing some head-hunting on my own.”
What they were going to do firmly implanted in their minds, the men urged their horses into a trot and began putting the miles behind them.
It was full dark when they pulled up, the lights of Fontana below them. They could hear an occasional gunshot and a faint, drunken whoop.
“I wonder where Tilden is,” Smoke said expressing his thought aloud. “If I could get lead in him, this would be over.”
“Well protected, wherever he is,” Louis said. “But what puzzles me is this: why is he letting his men do this?”
“He’s gone over the edge,” Smoke said. “He’s a crazy man, drunk with power. He’s made no telling how many thousand of dollars on gold shares with the miners and doesn’t care how much of it he spends. And he hates me,” Smoke added.
None of the men needed to add that Tilden Franklin also wanted Sally Jensen.
“Let’s go, boys,” Smoke said. “And good luck.”
The men separated, Smoke turning his horse’s head toward the right, Johnny moving out to the left. Bull and Crooked John headed straight in toward the lights of Fontana, and Louis Longmont moved out alone into the night.
Each man stashed his horse in the safest place he could find and slipped into the town to perform his assigned job.
The diversion that Crooked John and Bull made was a simple one. They set several buildings blazing, lighting up one end of the town.
Smoke slipped to the rear of Jackson’s general store and eased up onto the loading dock. His spurs were left hanging on his saddle horn and he made no noise as he pushed open the back door and entered the storeroom area of the building. Listening, he could hear the faint sobbing of Peg Jackson and the drunken grunting of men.
He wondered what had happened to Ed.
Smoke heard the excited shouting out in the street and wondered what kind of diversion the gunslingers had set. He glanced behind him, out the open back door of the store, and saw the reflection of the dancing, leaping flames reddening the night sky.
Grinning, he slipped closer to the cracked-open door that would lead into the store. He peeked through the crack and silently cursed under his breath.
He could see Ed, trussed up like a hog, on the floor of the store. The man’s face appeared to be badly swollen. There was blood and puke on his shirt front.
Lifting his eyes, searching, he saw Peg. The woman had been badly used and appeared to be just conscious enough to sob. A TF gunhawk, his pants down around his boots, his back to Smoke, was having his way with the woman. Several TF riders were sprawled on the floor and on the counters. They seemed to be dead drunk and out of it.
Two TF gunslicks were leaning against a counter, drinking whiskey straight out of the bottle, an amused look on their faces as they watched the rape of Peg Jackson.
Those men seemed to be the only ones still conscious enough to give Smoke any cause for worry.
The sounds of gunfire came hard through the night air. It was followed by a choking scream. The two TF men looked at each other.
“Let’s check that out,” one said.
The other man nodded and they both walked out onto the boardwalk in front of the general store.
Smoke slipped into the large area of the store. Looking down, he saw that Ed was awake and staring at him through wide and very frightened eyes. Smoke nodded his head at the man and put a finger to his lips, urging Ed to keep silent. Ed nodded his head.
Picking up an axe handle, Smoke slipped up behind the rapist, busy at his ugly work. Smoke hit him on the side of the head with the axe handle. The man’s skull popped under the impact and he fell to one side, dying as he was falling. Smoke glanced at him for a second. The man’s head was split open, his brains exposed.
Smoke jerked Peg to her unsteady feet and handed her a blanket. She looked at the blanket through dull and uncomprehending eyes. Glancing toward the open front door, Smoke could not see the two TF gunnies who had stepped outside. Walking swiftly to the counter, he picked up one half-empty bottle of whisky and returned to Peg. He tilted her head back and poured the raw booze down her throat. She coughed and gagged and gasped as her eyes cleared a bit.
She pulled the blanket over her nakedness and slowly nodded her head in understanding.
“Get to the back of the store,” Smoke whispered. “And wait there for us.”
She walked slowly, painfully, toward the rear of the store.
Smoke didn’t bother cutting Ed’s bonds. He just picked the man up and slung him over his shoulder. He walked swiftly out of the show and business area of the store, joining Peg on the loading dock. There, he dumped Ed on the dock and cut his bonds.
“Hitch up your team, Ed,” he spoke softly. “And do it very quietly and very quickly. Take the old road that circles the town and head
for Big Rock. A couple of miles out of town, pull up and wait for Spalding and Arden.”
“My store!” the man protested.
Smoke almost hit the man. He controlled his temper at the last second and said, “Get your goddamned ass moving, Ed. Or I’ll turn you back over to those TF riders. How do you want it?”
Shocked at the cold threat in Smoke’s voice, Ed moved quickly to his barn, Peg walking slowly behind him, the blanket clutched tightly around her.
Smoke walked back into the store just as more gunfire erupted throughout the town. Smoke entered the store just as the two TF gunslicks walked back in through the front door.
They all saw each other and jerked iron at the same time. Smoke’s Colts roared and bucked in his hands. The TF men were thrown to the floor as the .44 slugs from Smoke’s guns hit big bones and vital organs. Smoke’s draw was so fast, his aim so true, the men were unable to get off a single shot before death took them into its cold arms.
Smoke quickly reloaded and holstered his .44s. He walked to the gun rack and took down a sawed-off shotgun, breaking it down and loading it with buckshot, then stuffing his pockets full of shells. He took two new .44 pistols from the arms showcase, checked the action, and loaded them full, tucking them behind his gunbelt. Shotgun in hand, Smoke stepped out onto the boardwalk and prepared to lessen the odds just a tad.
The passed-out gunslicks in the store snored on, probably saving their lives…for the time being.
A TF gunslick made the mistake of riding up just at that moment. Lifting the Greener, Smoke literally blew the man out of the saddle, dumping him, now a bloody mass, onto the dusty ground.
He looked around him, his eyes picking up the black-dressed figure of Louis Longmont, standing on the boardwalk across the street. Louis had a Colt in each hand, the hammers back.
Trail Of The Mountain Man/revenge Of The Mountain Man (The Last Mountain Man) Page 22
