“Going to be interesting,” Louis murmured. “Very, very interesting.”
19
Smoke halted his small group on the edge of town. He looked at Charlie. “A whole passel of two-bit young punks who’ll be looking for a reputation in town. They’ll be on the prod for a fight.”
Charlie spat on the dirt beneath his horse’s belly. “They’ll damn sure get more than they bargained for with this bunch,” he replied.
“We’ll ride straight through,” Smoke said. “Stopping at Jackson’s Mercantile. Colby, pull your wagon up to the loading dock by the side. If there’s going to be trouble, let the other side start it. Let’s go, boys.”
Smoke and Charlie took the point, with Apache and Sunset riding to the left of the wagon, Bill Foley and Silver Jim to the right, and Moody and Luke Nations taking the drag. Smoke rode slowly, so the wheels of the wagon would not kick up much dust. The town had virtually come to a halt, the streets lined with citizens. They stood silently, watching the riders make their way along the street. Trouble hung in the air, as thick as dust.
The riders could practically feel the hate from Tilden Franklin’s eyes boring into them as they rode past where he sat like a king on the hotel boardwalk. Smoke met the man’s eyes and touched his hat brim in a gesture of greeting.
Tilden did not return the greeting.
They passed Louis Longmont’s gaming tent. Most of the old gunfighters knew the gambler and they greeted him. Louis returned the greeting and very minutely nodded his head in the direction Smoke was riding.
There was something or someone down there that Louis wanted Smoke to know about. Smoke’s eyes searched both sides of the street. Then he saw them, the three of them, lounging in front of a newly erected tent saloon.
Luis Chamba, Kane, and Sanderson.
The Mexican gunfighter stood with his arms folded across his chest, his sombrero off his head, hanging down his back by the chin cord.
“See them?” Smoke whispered the words, just audible over the clop of hooves.
“I see them,” Charlie returned the whisper. “That Chamba, he’s a bad one. Kills for pleasure. Gets his kicks that way, you know?”
Smoke knew the type.
Then they were past the killers.
“Kane and Sanderson?” Smoke asked. He knew of them, but did not know them personally.
“Just as bad. They’re all three twisted. And they’ll kill anything or anybody for money.”
“Look at them punks over to your left.”
“Seen them too,” Charlie said sourly. “Lookin’ to make themselves a reputation. I hope they don’t try none of this bunch. These guys are all on the shady side of their years, but Lord God, don’t sell ’em short.”
A young man with a smart-ass look to him and dressed like a San Francisco pimp stood glaring at the men. At least Smoke figured that’s how a San Francisco pimp might dress, having never been there.
“Reckon it’s time for us to start us a Boot Hill here in Fontana, boys!” the loud-mouthed, loudly dressed young man said, raising his voice so the riders could all hear him.
The Apache Kid favored the young man with a glance and dismissed him just as quickly.
Sunset openly laughed at the dandy.
“Yeah,” another duded-up, two-gun-totin’ young man agreed, his voice loud. “And them old boys yonder ain’t got long to go no ways. Might as well start with them. How ’bout it?”
None of the aging gunfighters even acknowledged the punk had spoken. They rode on.
“Hell!” another would-be gunslinger yelled, fanning the air with his fancy hat. “They so goddamned old they done lost their balls, boys!”
“That one is mine,” Luke said, just so his friends could hear.
“He means it, Smoke,” Charlie said. “Don’t interfere none.”
“Far be it for me to interfere,” Smoke answered.
Back in the high country, Velvet Colby, her chores done for the morning, thought it would be nice to take a walk through the woods.
“Stay close, Velvet!” her mother called.
“Yes, ma’am, I will.”
Adam watched her go. He stuck his dime novel in his back pocket and picked up his .22 rifle, following Velvet but staying back, knowing how his sister enjoyed being alone.
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.”
