The aging gunfighters were having the time of their lives. They were doing what most loved to do: work cattle. Smoke’s bulls had been busy during the winter, and his herd had increased appreciably now that the calving was over. It was branding time, and the gunfighters were pitching in and working just as hard as Smoke or Pearlie. Some had gone to other small spreads in the area, helping out there, their appearance a welcome sight to the overworked and understaffed ranchers.
It appeared that the area was at peace. Smoke knew, from riding the high country, that Tilden Franklin’s punchers were busy moving the TF herds into the high pastures, and doing so, he suspected, for many reasons, not all of them associated with the welfare of the cattle. That was another sign that Tilden had not given up in his fight to rid the area of all who would not bend to his will. Those TF hands who were not gunslicks but cowboys were clearing out of the line of fire.
He said as much to Charlie Starr.
The gunhand agreed. “It ain’t even got started good yet, Smoke. I got word that Tilden is hirin’ all the guns he can, and they’re beginning to trickle in. It’s shapin’ up to be a bad one.”
“They any good?”
“Some of them are bad hombres. Some of them are just startin’ to build a rep. But they’re alive, so they must be fair hands with a gun.”
Smoke looked around him, at the vast, majestic panorama that nature had bestowed on this part of Colorado. “It’s all so foolish,” he said. “There is more than enough room for us all.”
“Not to a man like Tilden,” Luke Nations said, walking up, a tin cup of coffee in his hand. He was taking a break from the branding. “Tilden, least for as long as I’ve known of him, has always craved to be the bull of the woods. He’s crazy.”
All present certainly agreed with that.
“What’d Colby say or do when you give him that money we found in that holler tree?” Charlie asked Smoke.
“Sent it to Tilden by way of the Sheriff. Wrote him a note too. Told him where to put the money. Told him to put it there sideways.”
Charlie and Luke both grinned at that, Luke saying, “I sure would have liked to seen the look on Tilden’s face when he got that.”
“How’s his health?” Charlie asked.
“Coming along,” Smoke said with a grin. “Doc Colton goes out there several times a week. ’Bout the only thing wrong with Tilden now—other than the fact he’s crazy—is that he don’t have any front teeth and his ribs is still sore.”
“I figure we got two, maybe three more weeks before Tilden pulls all the stops out,” Luke said. “He’s not goin’ to do nothin’ until he’s able to sit a saddle and handle a short gun. Then look out.”
And they all agreed with that.
“I figure he’ll save us for last,” Smoke said. “I figure he’ll hit Peyton first. That’s the ranch closest to his range, and the furtherest from us. I’ve warned Peyton to be careful, but the man seemed to think it’s all over now.”
“Is he a fool?” Luke asked.
“No.” Smoke said softly. “Just a man who tries to see the best in all people. He thinks Tilden has ‘seen the light,’ to use Peyton’s own words.”
“He’s a fool then,” Charlie opined. “There isn’t one ounce of good in Tilden Franklin. That little trick with Velvet should have convinced Peyton.”
“Speakin’ of Velvet…” Luke let it trail off into silence.
“No change,” Smoke said. “She eats, and sits. She has not uttered a sound in weeks.”
“Her pa?”
“Colby has turned real quiet-like,” Smoke told the men. “Never speaks of her. But I don’t like the look in his eyes. Belle told me he takes his pistol out every day and practices drawing and firing.”
“He any good?”
“No,” Smoke said flatly. “He just doesn’t have the eye and hand coordination needed to be any good. He’s slow as molasses and can’t hit jack-crap with a short gun.”
“Then he’s headin’ for trouble,” Luke said. “You want I should go talk to him?”
“Can if you want. But it won’t do any good. I tried talking to him. He just turned his back and walked away.”
Charlie spat on the ground. “The fool is diggin’ his own grave, Smoke.”
“Yeah. I know it. But he’s all tore up with grief. I’m thinkin’ he’s gonna brace the Harris Brothers if he ever gets the chance.”
“They’ll kill him,” Luke said. “Them boys is real good.”
Smoke nodded his head. He summed up his feelings by saying, “I think Colby wants to die.”
4
Paul Jackson walked into his brother’s office at the general store and told Ed he was quitting.
Ed looked at his brother as if he was looking at a fool. “To do what?”
“I staked me out a claim. Looks promisin’ too. You’re makin’ all the money here. Hell with you!”
“Fine. But remember this: you’ll not get a penny’s worth of credit from me.”
“I got money of my own.” He walked out of the office.
“You’re a fool!” Ed shouted after his brother.
His brother turned around and made a very obscene gesture. It was intended for Ed, but Ed’s wife caught it as well.
Peg stamped her foot.
Paul laughed and walked on out, feeling as though he had just had a great weight lifted from his shoulders. He swung into the saddle and trotted out, toward the high lonesome, where he had staked his claim.
Paul would show them all. He’d come back a rich man and take Bountiful from that namby-pamby preacher and then, just like in one of them dime novels, the both of them would ride off into the sunset, to be forever together.
Or something like that.
“What side of this fracus is Utah Slim on?” Johnny North asked Monte over coffee one bright early summer morning.
“I can’t figure it, myself. He don’t appear to be on neither side. And he ain’t hurtin’ for money. He’s always got a wad of greenbacks.”
“Gamble?”
Monte shook his head. “No. I ain’t never seen nor heard of him gamblin’.”
“He’s on somebody’s payroll,” the gunslinger opined. “You can bet on that. Utah don’t do nothin’ for nothin’. He’s here for a reason.”
“You find out, you let me know?”
“Why not? I sure ain’t got no axes to grind in this here fight.”
“Tilden’s hirin’ you know.”
“Screw Tilden Franklin. I got me a little claim staked out and got guys workin’ it for shares. ’Bout five years back, I started puttin’ back a little bit of money ever’ time I had some to spare. Got it in a bank up in Boulder. With the gold I get out of this claim, I aim to start me a little ranch; maybe do a little farmin’ too. Hang up my guns.”
Monte started grinning.
“What are you grinnin’ about, you ape?” Johnny asked.
“Gonna do a little bit of ranchin’ and a little bit of farmin’, hey?”
“Yeah! What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothin’. Nothin’ at all. But what happens if you run into some big rancher like Tilden when you decide to settle down?”
“Well…I reckon I’ll fight.”
Monte suddenly felt better. He started chuckling. “Oh, yeah, Johnny, you got an axe to grind in this war—you just ain’t realized it yet.”
Johnny thought about that, then he too started chuckling. “By God, Monte, you right. I think I’ll go see if that feller Colby needs a hand. Might do me some good to do some hard work for a change.”
“He can’t pay you nothin’.”
“I ain’t askin’ for nothin’.”
Boot heels drummed on the boardwalk and someone was hollering for the sheriff.
Monte jumped up and headed for the door, Johnny right behind him. A wild-eyed miner almost collided with them both.
“Come quick, Sheriff! That nester Colby is about to draw down on a TF gunnie named Donnie. Hurry, Sheriff, hurry!
”
“Crazy farmer!” Monte yelled, running toward a saloon. He could see a crowd gathered on both sides of a man standing out in the street. He recognized the man as Colby, and with a sick feeling realized he was not going to be able to stop it. He just knew that Colby had started it, and if that was the case, he would not interfere. It was an unwritten rule in the West—and would be for about a decade to come—that a man broke his own horses and killed his own snakes. If one challenged another to a gunfight, and it was a fair fight, few lawmen would interfere.
The gunslick, Donnie, was standing on the boardwalk, laughing at the farmer. Colby was standing in the street, cursing the TF rider.
Monte stopped some distance away, halting both Johnny and the miner. “Who started it?”
“That farmer. He called Donnie out and started cussin’ him. Ain’t you gonna stop it, Sheriff?”
“There is nothin’ I can do, mister,” Monte told the man. “If Colby wants to back off, I’ll see that he gets that chance. But I can’t stop it. There ain’t no city or county law agin a one-on-one fight.”
“Colby’s gonna get killed,” the miner said.
“I reckon,” Monte agreed.
“What’s the matter, Pig-farmer?” Donnie taunted the older man. “You done lost your nerve?”
“No,” Colby said, his voice firm. “Anytime you’re ready, draw!”
Donnie and his friends laughed. “Hell, Nester,” Donnie said. “I ain’t gonna draw on you. You called me out, remember?”
“You raped my Velvet and killed my boy.”
“I didn’t rape nobody, Nester. Your daughter was sellin’ and we’uns bought. Cash money for merchandise. Your boy busted up in there and started throwin’ lead around. We fired back. And that’s the way it happened.”
“You’re a goddamned liar!” Colby shouted.
“Now that tears it, Nester,” Donnie said, his hands over the butts of his guns. “You make your play.” He grinned nastily. “Sorry ’bout Velvet, though. She shore liked it, the more the merrier.”
Colby went for his old Navy Colt .36. Grinning, Donnie let the man fumble and then with a smooth, practiced motion drew, cocked, and fired, the slug taking Colby in the right shoulder. The farmer spun around, dropping his Navy Colt onto the dirt of the street.
Colby reached for the gun with his left hand and Donnie fired again, the slug striking Colby in the stomach. The farmer was tossed to one side and Donnie’s Colt roared again, the slug raking Colby flush in the face, just above the nose and below the eye sockets. Colby’s face was shattered. He trembled once and was still.
“That’s it!” Monte shouted. “Holster your gun and ride out of town, Donnie. Right now. Git gone, boy, or face me. Make your choice.”
“Hey, I’m leavin’, Sheriff.” Donnie grinned, returning his Colt to leather. “I mean, you saw it—I didn’t start it.”
Louis Longmont had watched the whole sickening show from across the street. But, like the sheriff, he had made no attempt to stop it. Such was the code demanded of those who braved the frontier.
Longmont tossed his cigar into the street and walked back to his gaming tent. Then a truth made its way into the light of his mind: he was sick of the whole damned mess. Tired of late hours and tired of taking other people’s money—even if his games were honest—tired of sweat-stinking miners and cowboys, tired of the violence and dust and heat and intense cold. Tired of it all. Just plain tired of it.
The gambler realized then that this was to be his last boom town.
That thought made him immensely happy.
From his table in his gaming room, Louis watched the undertaker’s black hack rumble past.
He heard a voice saying, “This poor wretch have any family?”
He could not hear the reply.
Louis poured a tumbler of scotch and lifted the glass, silently toasting the dead Colby.
“Not much money in his pockets.” The undertaker’s voice came to Louis.
“Mike!” Louis called.
The bouncer stuck his big head around the corner “Yeah, Boss?”
“Go tell the undertaker to prepare Colby’s body and do it up nice—the best he can offer. I’m paying.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And tell Johnny North to come see me.”
“Yes, sir.”
A few minutes later, Johnny North stepped into the gaming tent. “You wanna see me, Louis?”
The two were not friends, but then neither were they enemies. Just two men who were very, very good with a gun and held a mutual respect for each other.
“You know where Colby’s spread is located, Johnny?”
“I can probably find it.”
“Someone needs to ride up there and tell his wife that she’s a widow.”
“You tellin’ me to do it, Louis?”
“No.” The gambler’s left hand worked at a deck of playing cards on the table. His right hand was not visible. “But I am asking.”
“If that’s the case…fine. I’ll go.”
“Ask her…no, ride on to Smoke’s place and tell him what happened, if you will, please. Ask him to arrange for a wagon to come for Colby’s body.”
“I’ll do that too, Louis. Louis?”
The gambler looked at the gunfighter.
“It wasn’t right…that shootin’. But we couldn’t interfere.”
“I know. But the West is changing, Johnny. Going to ranch and farm a bit with the savings you have up in Boulder, Johnny?”
That shook the blond-haired Nevada gunslick. “How in the hell…”
“I own part of the bank, Johnny,” Louis said with a very slight smile.
Johnny returned the smile. “I think I might just ask the Widder Colby if she needs some help up there, Louis. Not today, now, that wouldn’t be fitten. But later on.”
“That would be a very decent act on your part, Johnny. I think Belle would appreciate that very much.”
“I’ll get goin’ now. See you, Louis.”
“See you. Thanks, Johnny.”
As the sounds of Johnny’s big California spurs faded on the boardwalk, Andre stuck his head out of the kitchen. “A snack, sir?” the chef asked.
“I think not, Andre. Just coffee, please.”
The chef hesitated. “It is a dismal and barbaric place, is it not, monsieur?”
“For a while longer, Andre. But it will change as time passes, and time will pass.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
Johnny North caught up with Donnie about five miles out of town. The young gunslick had several of his friends with him, but numbers had never bothered Johnny North before, and didn’t this time.
Johnny North made all the gunslicks and so-called gunslicks of this group nervous. They all kept their hands in plain sight, and as far away from their guns as could be humanly arranged.
“I ain’t lookin’ for no truck with you, Johnny,” Donnie said, his voice sounding a bit shrill.
“Peel off from your friends, Donnie,” Johnny told him.
“Why?”
“We’re gonna take a ride, just you and me.”
“Where we goin’?”
“To deliver a death message”
“I’ll be damned if I’m goin’!”
Johnny smiled grimly. “Do you prefer dead to damned, Donnie?”
“Huh?”
“You can either ride to the Colby place with me, and tell the widder how you gunned down her man, or you can be taken back to the TF spread…acrost your saddle. It’s up to you, Donnie.”
“They’s five of us, Johnny,” a TF gunhawk said.
“There won’t be when the smoke clears.”
Donnie and the others thought about that for a moment. “I reckon I’ll ride with you, Johnny,” Donnie said.
“Fine. You others hightail it back to the TF. You tell Tilden Franklin that from now on I’ll be workin’ out at Colby’s place. Tell him to keep his ass and your asses off that range. You got all that?”
“Yes, sir, Johnny,” a young TF gunnie said.
“Yes, sir, Mister North!”
“Yes, sir, Mister North!”
“Ride!”
The TF gunnies laid the spurs to their horses and left in a cloud of dust and drumming hooves. None of them was lookin’ forward to delivering this news to Tilden Franklin. But none of them wanted to tangle with Johnny North neither. Lesser of two evils, they figured.
“You ride in front of me, Donnie,” Johnny said. “Move out.”
There was a lot of things Donnie wanted to say. Wisely, he said none of them. Just silently cussed.
5
“There was five of you!” Tilden shouted at the men. “Five of you! I’m paying you men good money, fighting wages. But so far, I’ve seen damn little fighting. But a hell of a lot of running. What does it take to put some backbone in you men?”
The gunslicks stood and took it in silence. Luis Chamba and his sidekicks, Kane and Sanderson, stood by the corner of the big house and smiled at the dressing-down Tilden was giving his gunhands.
When the chastised men had departed, Luis said, “Perhaps, señor, it is time for some night-riding, si?”
Tilden shifted his cold eyes to the Mexican gunfighter. “I’ll pass the word, Luis. You’re in charge. The others take orders from you. Cooriente?”
Luis smiled his reply.
“Make your plans, Luis.”
“This game señor…what are the limits?”
“No limits, Luis. Let the chips fall.”
“I like this game, señor,” Luis said with a smile.
“I rather thought you would,” Tilden said tightly.
Belle Colby stood in her front yard, Bob by her side, and listened to Donnie haltingly tell what had happened. The TF gunslick’s face was flushed with anger, but he told it all, leaving nothing out.
When he had finished, Johnny said, “If I ever see you on this range, Donnie, I’ll kill you. Now ride, punk—ride!”
Donnie wheeled his horse and galloped out.
Bob said, “Are you really Johnny North?”
“Yes. Ma’am?” He looked at Belle. “I’ll be ridin’ over to the Sugarloaf. I should be back by sundown. I’ll bunk in the barn if that’s all right with you.”
Trail Of The Mountain Man/revenge Of The Mountain Man (The Last Mountain Man) Page 16