Trail of the Mountain Man (10 page)

“No, Louis. No. Don't you see what Tilden is trying to pull?”

“Of course I do, boy! But give it time. In six months this area of the country will be right back where it was a month ago. Farm and ranch country. This town will dry up with only a few of the businesses remaining. I'm betting Tilden won't want to be king of nothing.”

“He won't be king of nothing, Louis. For if we don't fight, he'll kill us all one by one. He'll make some grand gesture of buying out the widows or the kids — through some goddamned lawyer — and then he'll own this entire section of the state of Colorado. Everything!”

Louis nodded his head. “Maybe you're right, Smoke. Maybe you're right. If that's the case, then you've got to start hiring guns of your own. You and your wife have the means to do so; if you don't, let me advance you the money.”

Suddenly, Smoke thought of something. In a way it was a cruel thought, but it was also a way for a lot of broke, aging men to gather in one final blaze of glory. The more he thought about it, the better he liked it, and his mood began to lighten. But he'd have to bounce it off Charlie first.

“Why are you smiling, Smoke?” Louis asked.

“Louis, you're one of the best gamblers around, aren't you?”

“Some say I am one of the best in the world, Smoke. I should think my numerous bank accounts would back up that claim. Why do you ask?”

“Suppose you suddenly learned you were dying, or suppose some ... well, call it fate ... started dealing you bad hands and you ended up broke and old — anything along that line — and then someone offered you the chance to once more live in glory. Your kind of glory. Would you take it, Louis, or would you think the offer to be cruel?”

“What an interesting thought! Say now ... cruel? Oh, no. Not at all. I would jump at the opportunity. But ... what are you thinking of, Smoke? I'm not following this line of questioning at all.”

“You will, Louis.” Smoke stood up and smiled. His smile seemed to Louis to be rather mysterious. “You will. And I think you'll find it to your liking. I really believe you will.”

Long after Smoke had plopped his hat on his head, left the gaming room, and ridden out of town, Louis Longmont had sat at the table and thought about what his young friend had said.

Then he began smiling. Soon the smile had turned to chuckling and the chuckling to hard laughter.

“Oh ...” he managed to say over the pealing laughter. “I love it!”

Smoke sat with Sally, Pearlie, and Charlie. Charlie listened to what Smoke had on his mind and then leaned back in his chair, a broad smile on his face. He laughed and slapped his knee.

“Smoke, that's the bes' idee I've heard of in a long, long time. Cruel? No, sir. It ain't cruel. What you're talkin' about is what they do bes'. You give me the wherewithal and I'll have an even dozen here in a week, soon as I can get to a telegraph and get hold of them and get some money to them.”

“Name them, Charlie.”

“Oh ... well, there's Luke Nations, Pistol Le Roux, Bill Foley, Dan Greentree, Leo Wood, Cary Webb, Sunset Hatfield, Crooked John Simmons, Bull Flagler, Toot Tooner, Sutter Cordova, Red Shingletown ... give me time and I'll name some more.”

Pearlie said, “But all them old boys is
dead
!”

“No, they ain't neither,” Charlie corrected. “They just re-tared is all.”

“Well ...” Pearlie thought a moment. “Then they mus' be a hundred years old!”

“Naw!” Charlie scoffed at that. “You jus' a kid, is all. They all in their sixties.”

“I've met some of them. Charlie, I don't want to be responsible for any of them going to their deaths.”

“Smoke ... it's the way they'd want it. If they all died, they'd go out thankin' you for the opportunity to show the world they still had it in them. Let them go out in a blaze of glory, Smoke.”

Smoke thought about it. That was the way Preacher would have wanted to go. And those old Mountain Men three years back, that's how they had wanted it. “All right, Charlie. We'll give you the money and you can pull out at first light. Me and Pearlie will start adding on to the bunkhouse. How many do you think will be here?”

“When the word gets out, I'd look for about twenty-five or so.” Charlie said it with a smile. “You gonna have to hire you a cook to help Miss Sally. Or you'll work her to a frazzle, Smoke.”

“All right. Do you know an old camp cook?”

“Shore do. Dad Weaver. He can cook and he can still pull a trigger too. One about as good as the other.”

“Hire him. Oh, 'fore I forget.” He looked at Sally. “I had a late breakfast with Louis Longmont. His chef fed me crap susies.”

“Fed you
what
?” Sally said.

“The chef set it on fire before he served me. I thought he'd lost his mind.”

“You didn't eat it, did you?” Pearlie asked.

“Oh, yeah! It was pretty good. Real sweet.”

“Crepes suzette,”
Sally said.

“That's it,” Smoke said. “Say it again.”

“You pronounce it ...
krehp sew-zeht.
You all try to say it.”

They all tried. It sounded like three monkeys trying to master French.

“I feel like a plumb idiot!” Charlie said.

 

 

“What're those damned nesters up to?” Tilden Franklin asked his foreman.

“I can't figure it,” Clint said. “They've all rode out and told the miners there wouldn't be no trouble as long as the miners don't spook their herds or trample their crops. They was firm, but in a nice way.”

“Damn!” Tilden said. “I thought Jensen would go in shooting.”

“So did I. You want us to maybe do a little night-ridin'?”

“No. I want this to be all the nesters' doing. Wait a minute. Yeah, I do want some night-riding. Send some of the boys out to Peyton's place. Rustle a couple head and leave the butchered carcasses close to some miners' camps. Peyton is hot-headed; he'll go busting up in there and shoot or hang some of them. While we stand clear.”

Clint smiled. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

 

 

Sheriff Monte Carson and his so-called deputies kept only a loose hand on the rowdy doings in Fontana. They broke up fistfights whenever they could get to them in time, but rarely interfered in a stand-up, face-to-face shootout. Mostly they saw to it that all the businesses — with the exception of Louis Longmont, Ed Jackson, and Lawyer Hunt Brook — paid into the Tilden kitty ... ten percent of the gross. And don't hold none back. The deputies didn't bother Doctor Colton Spalding either. They'd wisely decided that some of them just might need the Doc's services sooner or later ... probably sooner.

And, to make matters just a little worse, the town was attracting a small group of would-be gunslicks; young men who fancied themselves gunfighters and looked to make a reputation in Fontana. They strutted about with their pearl-handled Colts tied down low and their huge California spurs jangling. The young men usually dressed all in black, or in loudly colored silk shirts with pin-striped trousers tucked inside their polished boots. They bragged a lot about who they had faced down or shot, and did a lot of practicing outside the town limits. They were solid looking for trouble, and that trouble was waiting just around the corner for a lot of them.

The town of Fontana was still growing, both in businesses and population. It now could boast four hotels and half a dozen rooming houses. Cafes had sprung up almost as fast as the saloons and the hurdy-gurdy girls who made their dubious living in those saloons ... and in the dirty cribs in the back rooms.

The mother lode of the vein had been located, and stages were rolling into town twice a day, to carry the gold from the assay offices and to drop off their load of passengers. Tilden Franklin had built a bank, The Bank of Fontana, and was doing a swift business. Supply wagons rolled and rattled and rumbled twenty-four hours a day, bringing in much-needed items to the various businesses.

To give the man a small amount of credit, Tilden Franklin had taken a hard look at His Town and quietly but firmly begun rearranging the business district. There were now boundaries beyond which certain types could not venture during specific hours. The red-light district lay at one end of Fontana, and just behind a long row of saloons and greasy-spoon cafes. Those ladies who worked in the red-light houses — in God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash — were not allowed past the invisible line separating the good people from the less desirable people during the time between seven in the morning and four in the afternoon. Heaven forbid that a “decent woman” should have to rub shoulders with ... that other kind of lady.

 

 

Peyton had found the butchered carcass of two of his beeves close to a miner's camp.

“Take it easy,” Smoke said trying to calm the older man. “Those miners have hit a solid strike over there. No reason for them to have rustled any of your cows. Think about it, Peyton. Look here,” Smoke said, pointing. “These are horse tracks around these carcasses.”

“So?” Peyton angrily demanded. “What the hell has that got to do with it?”

“Those miners are riding mules, Peyton.”

That news brought the farmer-rancher up short and silent. He walked over and sat down on a fallen log. He thought about that news for a moment.

“We're not actin' like Tilden would like,” Peyton said softly. “So he's tryin' to prod us into doin' something to blow the lid off. I was about to play right into his game, and he would have sent those so-called deputies up to arrest me, wouldn't he, Smoke?”

“Probably.” Smoke had told none of the others about the old gunfighters on their way in. Charlie had returned from his travels, all smiles and good news.

The aging gunfighters would begin arriving at any time, trickling in alone or in pairs as they linked up on the trails and roads.

“Go on home,” Smoke told the older man. “I'll go see the miners.”

Smoke watched the man mount up and leave. He swung into the saddle and rode up toward the miners' camp. He hailed the camp and was told to come on in.

Briefly Smoke explained, but he made no mention of Tilden Franklin.

“Who would try to cause trouble, Smoke?” a burly miner asked.

“I don't know. But I just put the lid back on what might have been real trouble. You boys be careful from here on in. Tempers are frayed enough around here. The slightest thing could lit the fuse.”

“We will. Smoke, you reckon Peyton and some of the others would mind if me and the boys pitched in and kind of helped around their places? You know ... we're all pretty handy with tools ... maybe some repair work, such as that?”

“I think it would be a hell of a nice move on your part.” Smoke grinned and the miners grinned back. “And it's gonna irritate whoever it is trying to stir up trouble. I'll tell the others to look for you. I bet y'all would like some home-cooked grub too, wouldn't you?”

That brought a round of cheers from the miners, many of whom had families far away.

Smoke wheeled his horse and rode back down the mountain. Smoke the gunfighter had suddenly become Smoke the peacemaker.

 

 

“Nothing,” Clint told Tilden. “Smoke made peace with the miners. He figured it all out somehow.”

“What's it going to take to prod those goddamned nesters into action?” Tilden asked. “I'm about out of ideas.”

Clint didn't like what he was about to suggest, but Clint rode for the brand. Right or wrong. “The Colby girl.”

Although it had originally been Tilden's idea, the more he thought about it, the less he liked it. Bother a good woman out West and a man was in serious trouble ... and it didn't make a damn who you were or how much or how little you had.

“Risky, Clint.” He met the man's eyes. “You have a plan?”

“Yes,” the foreman said, and stepped across that narrow chasm that separated good from evil, man from rabid beast.

“How long will it take you to set it up?”

“A few days. Them nesters got to be going into town for supplies pretty soon.”

Tilden nodded his head. “Do it.”

 

 

“You better get some sort of platform, Boss,” Pearlie told Smoke.

“Platform? What are you talking about?”

“Some of them old gunhands is pullin' in. I swear to God there oughta be a hearse followin' along behind ‘em.”

Smoke stepped out of the barn just as Charlie was riding up from the Sugarloaf range.

Smoke had never seen a more disreputable, down-at-the-heels-looking bunch in all his life. Some of them looked like they'd be lucky to see another morning break clear.

“See what I mean about that platform, Boss? I swear that them ol' boys is gonna hurt themselves gettin' off their horse.”

Smoke had to smile. He was fondly recalling a bunch of Mountain Men who, at eighty, were as spry as many men half their age. “Don't sell them short, Pearlie. I got a hunch they're gonna fool us all.”

“Hi, thar, Buttermilk!” Charlie called.

“Aaa-yeeee!” the old man hollered. “You get uglier ever' time I see you, Charlie.”

“Talks funny too,” Pearlie said.

“I seen now why he's called Buttermilk.”

“Why?”

“That's probably all he can eat. He don't have any teeth!”

“
That
is The Apache Kid?” Sally said, speaking to Smoke. “I have heard stories about The Apache Kid ever since I arrived in the West. Smoke, he looks like he might topple over at any moment.”

“That's him,” Smoke said. “Preacher told me about him. And I'll make you a bet right now that that old man can walk all day and all night, stop for a handful of berries and take a sip of water, and go another twenty-four hours.”

“I ain't dis-pootin' your word, Boss,” Pearlie said. “But I'm gonna have to see it to believe it.”

Smiling, Smoke bent down and picked up a small chunk of wood. “Apache!” he called.

The old, buckskin-clad man turned and looked at Smoke.

“A silver dollar says you can't knock it out of the air.”

“Toss 'er, boy!”

Smoke tossed the chunk high into the air. With fifty-odd years of gunhandling in his past, Apache's draw was as smooth and practiced as water over a fall. He fired six times. Six times the hardwood chunk was hit, before falling in slivers to the ground.

“Jesus!” Pearlie breathed.

“That's six silver dollars you owe me,” Apache said.

Smoke laughed and nodded his head. The Apache Kid turned to talk with Charlie.

“That Jensen?” Apache asked, as the other old gunfighters listened.

“That's him.”

“He as good as they say?” Bowie asked.

“I wouldn't want to brace him,” Charlie said, paying Smoke the highest compliment one gunhand could pay to another.

“That good, hey?” Luke Nations asked.

“He's the best.”

“I heared he was that,” Dan Greentree said. “Rat nice of him to in-vite us on this little hoo-raw.”

Smoke and Sally had gone into the cabin, leaving the others to talk.

Pearlie shyly wandered over to the growing knot of men. He was expecting to get the needle put to him, and he got just that.

“Your ma know you slipped away from the house, boy?” a huge, grizzled old man asked.

Pearlie smiled and braced himself. “You be Pistol Le Roux?”

“I was when I left camp this mornin'.”

“I run arcost a pal of yourn bout three years ago — up on the Utah-Wyoming line. South of Fort Supply. Called hisself Pawnee.”

“Do tell? How was ol' Pawnee?”

“Not too good. He died. I buried him at the base of Kings Mountain, north side. Thought you'd wanna know.”

“I do and I ‘preciate your plantin' him. Say a word over him, did you?”

“Some.”

“This is Pearlie, Pistol.”

“Pleased. Join us, Pearlie.”

Pearlie stood silent and listened to the men talk. Charlie said, “This ain't gonna be no Sunday social, boys. And I'll come right up front and tell you that some of you is likely to be planted in these here mountains.”

The sounds of horses coming hard paused Charlie. He waited until the last of the old gunslicks had dismounted and shook and howdied.

Charlie counted heads. Twenty of the hardest, most-talked-about, and most legendary men of the West stood in the front yard of the sturdy little cabin. Only God and God alone knew how many men these randy old boys had put down into that eternal rest.

The Apache Kid was every bit of seventy. But could still draw and shoot with the best.

Buttermilk didn't have a tooth in his head, but those Colts belted around his lean waist could bite and snarl and roar.

Jay Church was a youngster, 'bout Charlie's age. But a feared gunhawk.

Dad Weaver was in his mid-sixties. He'd opened him a little cafe when he'd hung up his guns, but the rowdies and the punks hadn't left him alone. They'd come lookin' and he'd given the undertaker more business. He'd finally said to hell with it and taken off for the mountains.

Silver Jim still looked the dandy. Wearin' one of them long white coats that road agents had taken to wearing. His boots was old and patched, but they shined. And his dark short coat was kinda frayed at the cuffs, but it was clean. His Colts was oiled and deadly.

Ol' Hardrock. Charlie smiled. What could he say about Hardrock? The man had cleaned up more wild towns than any two others combined. Now he was aging and broke. But still ready to ride the high trails of the Mountain Men.

Charlie lifted his eyes and spotted Moody. Ol' Moody. Standin' away from the others, livin' up to his name. Never had much to say, but by the Lord he was as rough and randy as they could come.

Linch. Big and hoary and bearded. Never packed but one short gun. Said he never needed but one.

Luke Nations. A legend. Sheriff, marshal, outlaw, gunfighter. Had books wrote about him. And as far as Charlie knew, never got a dime out of any of them.

Pistol Le Roux. A Creole from down in Louisiana. As fast with a knife as with a gun ... and that was plenty fast.

Quiet Bill Foley. Wore his guns cross-draw and had a border roll that was some quick.

Dan Greentree. Charlie had riden many a trail with Dan. Charlie wondered if these mountain trails around Fontana would be their last to ride.

Leo Wood. Leo just might be the man who had brought the fast draw to the West. A lot of people said he was. And a lot of so-called fast guns had died trying to best him.

Cary Webb. Some said he owned a fine education and had once taught school back East. Chucked it all and came West, looking for excitement. Earned him a rep as a fast gun.

Sunset Hatfield. Supposed to be from either Kentucky or Tennessee. A crack shot with rifle or pistol.

Crooked John Simmons. Got that name hung on him 'cause he was as cross-eyed as anybody had ever seen. Had a hair-trigger temper and a set of hair-trigger Colts.

Bull Flagler. Strong as a bull and just as dangerous. Carried him a sawed-off shotgun with a pistol grip on his left side, a Colt on the other.

Toot Tooner. Loved trains. Loved 'em so much he just couldn't resist holding them up back some years. Turned lawman and made a damn good one. Fast draw and a dead shot.

Sutter Cordova. His mother was French and his dad was Spanish. Killed a man when he was 'bout ten or eleven years old; man was with a bunch that killed his ma and pa. Sutter got his pa's guns, mounted up, and tracked them from Chihuahua to Montana Territory. Took him six years, but he killed every one of them. Sutter was not a man you wanted to get crossways of.

Red Shingletown. Still had him a mighty fine mess of flamin' red hair. He'd been a soldier, a sailor, an adventurer, a rancher ... and a gunfighter.

And there they stood, Smoke thought, gazing at the men from the cabin. I'm looking at yet another last of a breed.

But did I do right in asking them to come?

Sally touched his arm. Smoke looked down at her.

“You did the right thing,” she told him. “The trail that lies before those men out there is the one they chose, and if it is their last trail to ride, that's the way they would want it. And even though they are doing this for you and for Charlie, you know the main reason they're doing it, don't you?”

Smoke grinned, wiping years from his face. He looked about ten years old. All except for his eyes. “Ol' Preacher.”

“That's right, honey. They all knew him, and knew that he helped raise you.”

“What do you plan on having for supper?”

“I hadn't thought. Why?”

“How about making some bearsign?”

“It's going to run me out of flour.”

“Well ... I think me and Charlie and some of those ol' boys out there just might ride into Fontana tomorrow. We'll stop by Colby's and get him to take his wagon. Stock up enough for everybody. 'Sides, I want to see Louis's face when we all come ridin' in.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, poking him in the ribs and tickling him, bending him over, gently slapping at her hands. “But mostly you want to see Tilden Franklin's face.”

“Well ...” He suddenly swept her up in his arms and began carrying her toward the bedroom.

“Smoke! Not with all those ...”

He kissed her mouth, hushing her.

“... men out ...”

He kissed her again and placed her gently on the bed.

“Who cares about those men out there?” she finally said.

 

 

It came as no surprise to Smoke to find the men up before he crawled out from under the covers. This high up, even the summer nights were cool ... and this was still late spring. The nights were downright cold.

The men had gotten their bearsign the previous night, but Sally had been just a bit late with them.

Smoke dressed, belted on his Colts, and, with a mug of coffee in one hand, stepped out to meet the breaking dawn, all silver and gold as the sun slowly inched over the high peaks of Sugarloaf.

“Charlie, I thought a few of us would ride into town this morning and pick up supplies. We'll stop at Colby's place and he'll go with us in his wagon.”

“Who you want to go in with you?”

“You pick 'em.”

 

 

Adam Colby had been reading a dime novel about the life and times of Luke Nation, with a drawing of him on the cover, when he looked up at the sounds of horse's hooves drumming on the road. The boy thought he'd been flung directly into the pages of the dime novel.

He looked at the man on the horse, looked at the cover of the book, and then took off running for the house, hollering for his pa.

“Boy!” Colby said, stepping out of the house. “What in tarnation is wrong with ...”

The man looked at the group of riders still sitting their horses in his front yard. Colby's eyes flitted from man to man, taking in the lined and tanned faces, the hard, callused hands, and the guns belted around the lean waists. Colby knew of most of the men ... he just never imagined he'd see them in his front yard.

Adam approached Luke, the dime novel in his hand. He stood looking up at the famed gunfighter, awe in his eyes. He held out the book.

“Would you sign my book, Mister Nations?”

“I'd be right honored, boy,” the gunfighter said. He grinned. “That's about all I can write is my name.” He took the book and a stub of a pencil Adam held out to him and slowly printed his name, giving book and pencil back to the boy.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You're welcome.”

“We're riding into Fontana, Colby. Sally needs some supplies. Wanna get your wagon and come in with us?”

“Good idea. Wilbur and the boys will stay here. Give me a minute to get my shirt on. Adam, hook up the team, son.”

Colby's wife Belle, daughter Velvet, and boys Adam and Bob stood with Wilbur and his wife Edna and watched the men pull out. They would stop at several other small spreads to take any orders for supplies. The men and women and kids left at Colby's place resumed their morning chores.

A mile away, hidden in the timber, a TF rider watched it all through field glasses. When the men had ridden and rumbled out of sight, the TF rider took a mirror from his saddlebags and caught the morning sun, signaling to another TF rider that everything was ready. He didn't know who them hard-lookin' old boys was with Jensen, but they didn't look like they'd be much trouble to handle. Most of 'em looked to be older than God.

 

 

Tilden Franklin wanted to make damn sure he was highly visible to as many people as possible until after Clint's plan was over. Tilden had taken to riding into Fontana every morning, early, with Clint and several of his hardcases for bodyguards. He and his foreman usually had breakfast at the best hotel in town and then took their after-meal cigars while sitting on the porch of the hotel, perhaps reading or talking or just watching the passing parade.

This morning, Tilden looked up from the new edition of the
Fontana Sunburst,
Haywood and Dana Arden's endeavor, just as a TF rider rode by. Without looking at either Tilden or Clint, the rider very minutely nodded his head as he passed.

With a slight smile, Tilden lifted the newspaper and once more resumed his reading.

In a way, Tilden thought, he was kind of sorry he was gonna miss out on the action with that built-up little gal of Colby's. Tilden would bet that, once she settled into the rhythm, Velvet would get to liking it. All women were the same when it came to that, Tilden felt. They liked to holler and raise sand, but they wanted it. They just liked to pretend they didn't for the look of things.

Women, to Tilden's mind, were very notional critters ... and just like critters, not very bright. Pretty to have around, nice to pet, but that was about it.

One of Monte Carson's deputies rode up and looped the reins over the hitch rail in front of the hotel. Dismounting, he stood on the boardwalk facing Tilden.

“Charlie Starr ridin' in with that Smoke Jensen and the nester Colby, Mister Tilden.”

Tilden felt his face stiffen and grow hot as the blood raced to flush his cheeks. He lowered the newspaper and stared at the deputy.

“Charlie
Starr
?”

“Yes, sir. And that ain't all. Smoke's got some mean ol' gunslicks with him, too. The Apache Kid, Sunset Hatfield, Bill Foley, Silver Jim, Moody, and Luke Nations. They ridin' like they got a purpose, if you know what I mean.”

A young, two-bit, half-assed punk, who thought himself to be a bad man, was hanging around near the open doors of the hotel. He smiled and felt his heart race at the news. The deputy had just mentioned half a dozen of the most famous gunslingers in all the West. And they were coming into town — here!

Right here, the punk who called himself The Silver Dollar Kid thought, is where I make my rep. Right here, right out there in that street, that's where it all starts. He smiled and walked through the lobby, slipping out the back way. He wanted to change clothes, put on his best outfit before he faced one of those old gunhawks. There was a picture-taker in town; might be a good idea to stop by his studio and tell him about the old gunslicks so's he could have all his equipment set up and ready to pop.