While Ed Jackson and his brother loaded the wagon with supplies, Colby walked with Smoke over to Louis Longmont’s place. He introduced them and Louis invited them inside. Smoke had no intention of trying to shepherd and play check-rein on Charlie and the others. They’d been without his advice for a combination of about three hundred and fifty years. They didn’t need it now.
“A taste of the Glenlivet, gentlemen?” Louis asked.
“Huh?” Colby asked.
“Fine scotch whiskey,” Smoke told him.
Three tumblers poured three fingers deep, Louis lifted his glass. “Here’s to a very interesting summer, gentlemen.”
They clinked glasses and sipped.
Louis smiled. “Shall we adjourn to what laughingly passes for a veranda and watch the show, boys?”
“Sure going to be one,” Smoke agreed, moving toward the door.
Luke Nations had broken off from the others and was walking toward the knot of would-be gunslicks, walking directly toward the duded-up punk with the fat mouth. Luke stopped about twenty-five feet from him. He stood with the leather thongs off the hammers of his Colts. He stood with his feet slightly spread. He was big and bent and old and mean-looking. And the look in his eyes would have warned off a puma.
“You made a comment a minute or so ago, kid,” Luke said, his voice flat and hard. “Well, now is your chance to back up your mouth. Either that ... or tuck your fancy tail between your legs and carry your ass!”
His name was Lester. But he called himself Sundance. At this moment, he felt more like Lester than Sundance.
The Silver Dollar Kid had backed up against a wall. Unlike Lester, he wasn’t afraid; he just wanted to see if the old men still had it in them. When he had studied them, then he would make his move.
“Goddamn you, boy!” Luke’s voice was so sharp, it hurt. “Do you hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you.” Sundance surfaced, pushing Lester out of the way.
Monte Carson had come on the run when he heard the news of the impending shootout. He came to an abrupt halt, almost falling as his high-heeled boots dug into the dirt of the street. One of his deputies ran into him, and they both almost fell.
“What the hell?” the deputy said.
“Shut up and look around you!” Monte whispered hoarsely.
The Apache Kid was just across the street, standing alone, both hands to his sides, the palms very close to the butt of his Colts.
The deputy cut his eyes. Old Sunset was standing behind them, about thirty feet away.
Bill Foley stood just to their right, poised and ready for anything that might come his way.
“Ssshhittt!” Monte hissed, the breath whistling between his slightly gapped front teeth. He was looking eyeball to eyeball with Silver Jim, his long white duster brushed back, exposing the butts of the Colts, the leather hammer thongs off.
Back of them, facing Tilden Franklin and Clint, stood Moody. Moody said, “You boys come to watch or get dealt in?”
Tilden chewed his cigar soggy in a matter of a heartbeat. He felt no fear, for there was no fear in him. But he had grown up hearing stories about these old gunfighters. And at this distance, everybody was going to get lead in them. And there was something else too. Tilden knew, from hard experience, that when dealing with ballsy old men you’d best walk lightly. With their best years behind them, they had nothing to lose. Old men did not fight fair. Tilden had learned that the hard way too.
Clint cut his eyes. Louis Longmont, his tailored jacket brushed back over the butt of his guns, stood to Clint’s right. Smoke was facing Tilden’s other hands, and the other hands were looking a little green around the mouth.
And the gunslinger Johnny North had finally made his appearance. The blond-haired Nevada gunhand stood in the street, facing Luis Chamba and his two sidekicks. Johnny was smiling. And those that knew Johnny knew Johnny was not the smiling type.
All in all, as the Fontana Sunburst would later say in a column by its editor, it was a most exhilarating and tense moment. These legends of the Wild West, captivating an entire town with their bigger-than-life presence. A moment from the fading past that would be forever etched in the minds of all who had the opportunity to witness this fortuitous encounter of the last of the Bad Men.
Haywood did, on occasion, get a tad bit carried away with his writing.
But since the written word was scarce in the West, folks would read and enjoy nearabout anything. They might not understand what the hell they were reading, but read it they would.
“Do it, punk!” Luke shouted. He began walking toward the dandy. Luke had felt all along the dandy didn’t have the cold nerve to pull iron. When he reached the young man, who was beginning to sweat, he balled his left hand into a hard fist and knocked the loud-mouth to the dirt. Lester-Sundance fell hard. He lay on the dirt, looking up at Luke through wide, scared eyes.
Luke reached down and plucked the pearl-handled Colts from the young man’s holsters. He stepped to one side and wedged one barrel between a support block and the boardwalk. With a swift jerk, he broke off first one barrel, and then the other. He tossed the ruined pistols to Lester-Sundance.
“I’ll tell you something, boy,” Luke said. “I wish somebody had done something like that to me when I was your age. I might have amounted to something.”
Luke Nations turned his back to the sobbing, humiliated young man and walked away.
“I’ll kill him for that,” Lester-Sundance sobbed, but not loud enough for Luke to hear. “You just wait and see. I’ll get him for that.”
The Silver Dollar Kid walked across the street, in the direction Luke had taken.
“Well, boys!” Louis said. “How about the drinks on me? What say you all?”
Smoke looked at Tilden Franklin. “That includes you too, Franklin. Join us?”
His face flushed with rage and hate, Tilden turned his back on the invitation and stomped back up the street, Clint following like a dog behind him.
The TF puppies followed Clint.
Louis watched Tilden wheel around and stalk off. “The man is obviously of low degree,” the gambler said.
Smoke, Colby, and the gunfighters had a laugh at that. Tilden had heard the remark, and his back stiffened with new anger. His rage was such that he could hardly see.
“Get the horses, Clint!” he snapped.
“Boss,” Clint warned. “Hadn’t we best stay in town?”
Tilden’s big hands gripped a hitchrail and he trembled in his hot fury. “Yes. Yes,” he repeated, then cleared his throat. “You’re right. Order your boys to take off their gunbelts, Clint.”
“What”
“You heard me, Clint. We’re going to take that invitation for a drink. And then I’m going to stomp Smoke Jensen’s goddamned guts out. With my fists and boots!”
20
“What the hell?” Billy said, eyeballing Tilden and Clint and the other TF rowdies removing their gunbelts and looping them on their saddle horns.
The livery stable-swamper darted across the street and into Louis Longmont’s gaming place.
“Smoke!” he called. All heads turned toward the small boy in the doorway. “Tilden Franklin and them gunhands of his’n done dropped their gunbelts, and they’re all headin’ this way. I don’t know what they’re about, but I betcha it’s bad trouble.”
“I know what it is,” Smoke said. He set his untouched tumbler on the bar. “Thanks, Billy.”
“Come here, son,” Louis said. “You get over there,” he pointed, “and stay put. Andre!” he called for his chef. “Get this young man a sarsaparilla, s’il vous plait?”
“But monsieur ... ou?”
“Reasonable question,” Louis muttered. “Where indeed? Lemonade?”
Andre’s face brightened. “Oui!”
A big glass of cool lemonade in front of him, Billy slipped from the table to the eggs-and-cheese-and-beef end of the bar and filled a napkin with goodies. Eating and sipping, Billy sat back to watch the show.
>
Louis watched the boy’s antics and smiled. His big bouncer, Mike, stood close by Billy, his massive arms folded across his barrel chest.
The chef, Andre, had beat it back to his kitchen. Let the barbarians fight, he thought.
Boot heels drummed on the boardwalk and Tilden Franklin’s bulk filled the doorway. “I thought I’d take you up on your offer, Gambler,” he said.
“Certainly,” Louis said. “Be my guest.”
Tilden walked to the bar and poured a tumbler of whiskey. He toyed with the shot glass for a moment, then lifted the glass. “To the day when we rid the country of all two-bit nesters.”
Tilden and his men drank. None of the others acknowledged the toast.
Tilden smiled. “What’s the matter, boys? None of you like my toast?”
Smoke lifted his glass. “To the day when farmers and ranchers all get along.”
Smoke’s friends toasted that. Tilden, Clint, and the other TF men did not.
“What’s the matter, Tilden?” Smoke asked. “You don’t like my toast?”
Tilden’s smile was thin. Toying with his empty shot glass, his eyes on the polished bar, he said, “I’ve always had this theory, Jensen ... or whatever your name is. My theory is that most gunslicks live on their reputations, that without a gun in their hand, they’re mighty thin in the guts department. What do you think about that?”
“I think you’re mighty thin between the ears, Tilden. That’s what I think. I think you sit on your brains. Now what do you think about that?”
“I’m not armed, Jensen,” Tilden said, still looking down at the bar.
Smoke unbuckled and untied. He handed his guns to Colby. “Neither am I, Tilden. So the next move is up to you.”
Tilden looked at his riders. “Clear us a space, boys.”
Gaming tables and chairs were pushed back, stacked against one wall. The barroom floor was empty.
Tilden’s smile was ugly and savage. “I’m gonna break you in half, Jensen. Then your wife can see for herself what a real man can do ... when she comes to my bed.”
Smoke laughed at that. “You’re a bigger fool than I first thought, Tilden. Now make your move or shut your goddamned flapping mouth.”
Tilden spun away from the bar railing and charged Smoke. All two-hundred-forty-odd pounds of him, like an enraged bull, charging at the smaller man.
Smoke stepped to one side, stuck out a boot, and tripped the big man, sending him crashing and sprawling to the barroom floor. Smoke stepped in and kicked Tilden in the side, bringing a grunt of pain from the man. Before Smoke could put the boots to him again, Tilden rolled away and jumped to his feet.
Smoke, weighing some fifty-odd pounds less than Tilden, faced the bigger man. Both men lifted their hands and balled their fists.
“I’m taking bets on Smoke!” Louis announced. “Any takers?”
Clint and the TF men bet on their boss.
Haywood, Colton, Hunt, Ralph, and Ed had quietly slipped into the gaming room, standing close to the front door.
Big Mamma O’Neil bulled her way past those at the door. “A hundred bucks on Tilden!” she yelled.
“Done!” Louis said.
“Barbaric!” Hunt muttered.
Big Mamma laughed and slapped the lawyer on the back, almost knocking him down. She stepped on past the men at the door and walked to a far wall.
Tilden flicked a right hand toward Smoke, a feeling-out punch. Smoke moved his head slightly, dodging the punch. He jabbed a hard left, catching Tilden in the mouth, snapping the man’s head back.
With a roar, Tilden swung a roundhouse left that caught Smoke on the shoulder. A powerfully thrown punch, it brought a grunt of pain from the smaller man. Smoke countered with a right, hitting Tilden in the belly. It was like hitting a piece of hardwood. Tilden grinned at Smoke and the men went after each other, toe to toe, slugging it out.
Smoke realized that if he was to win this fight, and that was something he had to do, for morale’s sake if nothing else, there was no way he could stand up and match Tilden punch for punch. The man was bigger and stronger, and in excellent physical shape.
Smoke jumped to one side and lashed out with one boot, the toe of the boot catching Tilden on the kneecap. Tilden howled in pain and, for a second, dropped his guard. A second was all that Smoke needed.
Smoke hit the man twice, a left-and-right combination to the jaw. His punches were savage, and they rocked the bigger man, bringing blood from one side of his mouth. Tilden staggered under the combination, just for a second, his legs buckling.
Smoke hit the man flush on his mouth. Tilden’s lips splattered under the hard-thrown punch, the blood spurting. Tilden grabbed Smoke in a bear hug, holding on until he could recover. Smoke experienced the man’s massive strength as the air was crushed out of him. Tucking his head under Tilden’s jaw, Smoke brought his head up savagely. Tilden’s mouth snapped shut and he squalled in pain as the teeth caught his tongue and more blood was added to the flow from his battered mouth. The big man’s grip eased and Smoke slipped out of the bear hug.
Pivoting, Smoke poured on the steam and hit Tilden in the gut with every ounce of strength he could muster. The right fist caught Tilden just above the belt buckle, and the wind whooshed out of the man as he involuntarily doubled over. Smoke stepped in close and grabbed Tilden’s head and hair with both hands and brought the head down at the same time he was bringing a knee up. The knee caught Tilden smack on the nose and the nose crunched under the impact. Tilden was flung back against the bar.
The big man hung there, his eyes still wild but glazed over. Smoke stepped in close and went to work on the kingpin.
Smoke hammered at the man’s belly and face with work-hardened fists. In seconds, Tilden’s face was swollen and battered and bloody.
Clint stepped in to break up the fight and found himself suddenly lying on the barroom floor, hit on the back of the head by The Apache Kid’s rifle stock. Clint moaned once and then lay still, out cold.
Smoke went to work on Tilden’s belly, concentrating all his punches there, and they were thrown with all his strength. It was a savage, brutal attack on Smoke’s part, but Smoke knew, from having the old Mountain Man Preacher as his teacher, that there was no such thing as a fair fight. There was only a winner, and a loser.
He hammered at Tilden’s mid-section, working like a steam-driven pile-driver.
Twice, Tilden almost slumped to the floor. Twice, Smoke propped him back up and went to work on him. He shifted his attention to Tilden’s face, his punches ruining the man’s once-handsome features. Smoke’s flat-knuckled fists knocked out teeth and loosened others. His fists completely flattened Tilden’s nose. One punch to the side of Tilden’s head ripped loose an ear, almost tearing it off the man’s head. Still Smoke did not let up. His fists smashed into Tilden’s sides and kidneys and belly and face.
Smoke was fighting with a cold, controlled, dark fury. His fists battered the man; this man who had boasted he would take Smoke’s wife; this man who had sworn to run Smoke and the others out of this part of Colorado; this man who dared impose his will on all others.
Then Smoke realized he was battering and smashing an unconscious man. He stopped his assault and stepped back, his chest heaving and his hands hurting. Tilden Franklin, the bully of the valley, the man who would be king, the man who would control the destiny of all those around him, slipped to the floor to lie among the cigarette and cigar butts. His blood stained the trash on the floor.
He was so deep in his unconsciousness he did not even twitch.
“I’d have never believed it,” Big Mamma O’Neil was heard to whisper. “But I seen it. Lord have mercy, did I ever see it.”
“That’s a hundred dollars you owe me, Big Mamma,” Louis said. “You can give it to Billy over there.”
Louis looked at the Tilden riders. “You TF riders can pay Big Mike.”
“I have some medication at the office that will ease those swelling hands, Smoke,” Colton said.
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
Smoke leaned against the bar and nodded his head.
“Ain’t you gonna see to Mister Franklin?” a TF rider asked.
“At the office,” Colton said shortly. “I’ll prepare a bed for him.”
Smoke belted his guns around him and began working his fingers, to prevent them from stiffening any worse than he knew they would.
“Drag that cretin from my premises,” Louis said, pointing at the prostrate Tilden Franklin.
Big Mamma O’Neil laid five twenty-dollar gold pieces on the table in front of Billy.
Billy looked up at her with a bit of egg sticking to his upper lip ...
... and grinned!
Book Two
Now this is the law of the jungle — as old and as true as the sky. And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.
— Kipling
1
Twice, Adam thought he heard something back in the timber behind the Colby house. He lifted his head and concentrated. Nothing. He returned to his reading of the dime novel about the adventures of Luke Nations.
He was just getting to the part about where Luke rides into the Indian camp, both six-guns blazing, to rescue the lovely maiden when he heard kind of a muffled, cut-off scream from in the timber.
“Velvet!” he called.
Only the silence greeted his call. And then it came to him. The silence. The birds and the small animals around the place were used to Velvet’s walking through the woods. They seldom stopped their singing and chattering and calling simply because she came gently walking through.
The boy picked up his single-shot .22-caliber rifle and put his dime novel in the hip pocket of his patched and faded work pants. “Velvet!” he shouted.
Nothing.
Not the singing of a bird, not the calling or barking of a squirrel.
Something was wrong.
Adam hesitated, started to go back to the house for Mister Wilbur. Then he shook his head. It would take too long, for Velvet had strayed a pretty good piece from the house.
There was movement from his left. Adam turned just as something hard slammed into the back of his head and sent him spinning into darkness. The darkness blotted out the sunlight filtering through the trees.
Trail of the Mountain Man Page 13
