“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
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
“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-hit, 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.
The punk ran back to his tent and began changing into his very finest.
The news of the approaching gunfighters, still several miles out of Fontana, swept through the town like wild- fire through a dry forest. Haywood heard it and walked rapidly toward the main business district. He found himself a spot on the boardwalk across the street from where Tilden Franklin sat, surrounded by his hardcases.
Shopkeepers had shooed customers outside, where they stood, lining the boardwalks and packed-dirt sidewalks, waiting for the event of the day.
Louis Longmont came out of his gaming tent to stand on the boardwalk, watching as he smoked his first cigar of the morning. So Smoke had done it, he thought. A smile curved his lips. He’d actually pulled in some of the randiest old boys still living in the West.
