Trail of the Mountain Man (13 page)

“The lady is blind, Mister Brook,” Judge Proctor said. “I shouldn't have to remind you of that.” He stood up. “Come, Sheriff.”

Stepping outside, the judge almost ran into Pistol Le Roux. “Good Lord!” Proctor said. “It's been years, Pistol. You're looking quite well.”

“Thanks. How'd it go in yonder, Judge?”

“Not to anyone's liking, I'm afraid. Are you going to be in town long?”

“I work for Smoke Jensen.”

“Oh, my!” the judge said. “How many of you, ah, men did Mister Jensen hire, Pistol?”

Pistol smiled. “Twenty or so.”

Judge Proctor suddenly felt weak-kneed. “I see. Well, it's been nice seeing you, Pistol.”

“Same here, Judge.”

As they walked off, Monte asked. “How come it is you know that old gunslick, Judge?”

“I was up in the Wyoming country hearing a case of his when he was marshal of a town up there. Four pretty good gunhands braced him one afternoon.”

“How'd it come out?”

“Pistol killed them all.”

“And they's
twenty
of them old gunhawks workin' for Jensen?”

“Yes. Rather makes one feel inadequate, doesn't it, Sheriff?”

“Whatever that means, Judge.”

The judge didn't feel like explaining. “You know, Monte, you could be a good lawman if you'd just try.”

“Is that what I been feelin' lately, Judge?”

“Probably. But since you — we — are in Tilden Franklin's pocket, what are we going to do about it?”

“We wasn't in his pocket in this one, Judge.”

“That is correct. And it's rather nice feeling, isn't it, Sheriff Carson?”

“Damn shore is, Judge Proctor. Would you like to join me in a drink, Judge?”

“No, Sheriff, I think not. I just decided to quit.”

When Smoke and Sally and Pearlie and most of the other aging gunhawks rode up to Colby's place the following morning, they were all amazed to see the hills covered with people.

“What the hell?” Pearlie said.

“They're showin' Tilden Franklin how they feel,” Luke said. “And rubbin' his nose in it.”

“Would you look yonder?” Jay said. “That there is Big Mamma. In a dress!”

“Musta been a tent-maker move into town,” Apache said.

“Who is that pretty lady beside the ... large lady I presume you men are talking about?” Sally asked.

Smoke and Sally were in a buckboard, the others on horseback.

“That's Big Mamma's wife, Miss Sally,” Silver Jim explained.

Sally looked up at him. “I beg your pardon, Silver Jim?”

“They was married ‘bout three year ago, I reckon it was. Big Mamma had to slap that minister around a good bit 'fore he'd agree to do it, but he done 'er.”

Sally turned her crimson face forward. “I do not wish to pursue this line of conversation any further, thank you.”

“No, ma'am,” Silver Jim said. “Me neither.”

 

 

The service was a short one, but sincerely given by Ralph. Adam's forever-young body was buried on a hillside overlooking the Colby ranch.

And while most knew the TF riders were watching from the hills, no TF rider showed his face at the funeral. The mood of the crowd was such that if any TF riders had made an appearance, there most likely would have been a hanging.

Belle Colby and Velvet sat in the front yard during the service. Velvet had yet to speak a word or utter any type of sound.

 

 

Tilden sat on the front porch of his fine ranch house. He hurt all over. Never,
never,
in his entire life, had he been so badly torn up. And by a goddamned two-bit gunslinger.

Clint walked up to the porch. “Twelve hands pulled out last night, Boss.”

“You pay 'em off?” The words were hard to understand and even harder for Tilden to speak. His lips were grotesquely swollen and half a dozen teeth were missing. His nose had yet to be set because it was so badly broken and swollen hideously.

“No. They just packed it all up and rode off. Told Pete Harris they hired their guns to fight men, not to make war on little kids.”

“How noble of them. Hell with them!”

“Some of the others say they'll ride for brand — when it comes to punchin' cows. But they ain't gettin' involved in no war.”

“Hell with them too. Fire 'em!”

“Boss?”

“Goddamn you! I said fire them!”

Clint stood his ground. He put one boot up on the porch and stared square at Tilden. “Now you listen to me, Boss. We got a hell of a big herd out yonder. And we need punchers to see to that herd. Now I feel sick at my stomach over what I ordered them men to do to that Colby girl, but it's done. And I can't change it. I reckon I'll answer to the Lord for that. If so, that's 'tween me and Him. But for now, I got a herd to look after. Are you so crazy mad you can't understand that?”

Tilden took several deep breaths — as deeply as he dared, that is. For Smoke had broken several of his ribs. He calmed himself. “All right, all right, Clint! You've made your point. I want a tally of how many men are going to fight for me. Those that want to punch cows, do so. But for every one that won't fight, hire two that will. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let's face it. You made a mistake by suggesting what was done to the Colby bitch; I made a mistake by going along with it. All right. Like you say, it's done. I understand that Colby brat wrote in that stupid book about Luke avenging him, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I figured by now that old bastard would have come storming in here, fire in his eyes and his guns smoking. Maybe he's lost his balls.”

Clint shook his head. “You never knew Luke Nations, did you, Boss?”

“Can't say as I ever had the pleasure.”

“I do,” Clint said softly. “He's ...” The foreman searched for a word. “Awesome. There ain't a nerve in his body, Boss. He'll be comin' in smokin', all right. Bet on that. But he'll pick the time and place.”

“Hire the gunnies!” Tilden ordered, his voice harsh. “And then tell our gunhawks it's open season on nesters.”

Clint hesitated. “Can I say something, Boss?”

“What is it, Clint?”

“Why don't we just drop the whole damned thing, Boss? Call it off? If word of this war gets to the governor's ears, he's liable to send in the Army.”

“Hell with the governor. We got the sheriff and the judge in our pockets; how's anything goin' to get out?”

“I don't know about Monte and the judge no more, Boss. They was both pushin' real hard yesterday about that Velvet thing.”

“I got them elected, I can get them un-elected.”

Clint's smile was rueful. “You're forgettin' something, Boss.”

“What?”

“The
people
elected 'em. For four years.”

Clint turned around and walked off, leaving Tilden alone on the porch ... with his hurting body.

And his hate.

 

 

Two weeks passed with no trouble ... none at all. Between Tilden and the smaller spreads, that is. There was still minor trouble in town. But Monte and his men put that down quickly and hard. And the now-sober Judge Proctor hit the offenders with such stiff fines and terms in the new jailhouse that it seemed to deter other potential lawbreakers.

And Monte stopped collecting graft from the saloons and other businesses. He was being paid a good salary as sheriff, and decided that was enough. Any deputy that didn't like the new rules could leave. A few did, most stayed. All in all, it was a good job.

Monte looked up as the front door to his office opened. Johnny North stood there, gazing at him.

“You decide to make your move now, Johnny?” Monte asked.

“I don't know,” the gunfighter said. “Mind if I sit down?”

Monte pointed to a chair. “Help yourself.”

Johnny first poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat and looked at the sheriff. “What the hell's the matter with you, Monte? You got religion or something?”

Monte smiled. “I ain't got religion, that's for sure. Maybe it's the something. Why do you ask?”

“I been waitin' for you to come brace me for two damn weeks. You forgot we're supposed to hate each other?”

“No, I ain't. But I'll tell you this: I can't remember what we're supposed to hate each other for!”

Johnny scratched his chin. “Come to think of it, neither can I. Wasn't it something about a gal?”

Monte started laughing. “I don't know! Hell, Johnny. Whatever it was it happened so many years ago, what difference does it make now?”

Johnny North joined in the laughter. “You et yet?”

“Nope. You buyin'?”

“Hell, why not? it's gettin' too damn hot outside for a gunfight anyways.”

Laughing, the old enemies walked to a cafe.

A few of Tilden Franklin's hands were lounging in a tight knot outside a saloon. These were not the gunhawks employed by the TF brand, but cowboys. And to show they were taking no sides in this matter, they had checked their guns with the bartender inside the saloon.

Monte Carson had made it clear, by posting notices around the town, that TF gunhawks had better not start any trouble in his town, or in any area of his jurisdiction. He'd had to get the judge to spell all the words.

The judge had done so, gleefully.

“Looks like Johnny North and the Sheriff done kissed and made up,” one cowboy remarked.

“That's more trouble for Tilden,” another observed. There was just a small note of satisfaction in the statement.

Another TF puncher sat down on the lip of a watering trough. “It's May, boys. Past time to move the herds up into the high country for the summer.”

“I been thinkin' the same thing.”

“I think I'll talk to Clint when we get back to the ranch. Kinda suggest, nice-like, that we get the herds ready to move. If he goes along with it, and I think he will, that'll put us some thirty-five miles from the ranch, up in the high lonesome. Take a hell of a pistol to shoot thirty-five miles.”

“Yeah. That'd put us clean out of any war, just doin' what we're paid to do: look after cows.”

Another cowboy sat down on the steps. He looked at the puncher who had suggested the high country. “You know, Dan, sometimes you can show some signs of havin' a little sense.”

“Thank you,” Dan said modestly “For a fact, my momma didn't raise no fool for a son.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah,” Dan said with a smile. “I had a sister.”

 

 

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.”