Smoke, Colby, and the gunfighters had a laugh at that. Tilden had heard the remark, and his back stiffened with new anger. His rage was such that he could hardly see.
“Get the horses, Clint!” he snapped.
“Boss,” Clint warned. “Hadn’t we best stay in town?”
Tilden’s big hands gripped a hitchrail and he trembled in his hot fury. “Yes. Yes,” he repeated, then cleared his throat. “You’re right. Order your boys to take off their gunbelts, Clint.”
“You heard me, Clint. We’re going to take that invitation for a drink. And then I’m going to stomp Smoke Jensen’s goddamned guts out. With my fists and boots!”
20
“What the hell?” Billy said, eyeballing Tilden and Clint and the other TF’ rowdies removing their gunbelts and looping them on their saddle horns.
The livery stable-swamper darted across the street and into Louis Longmont’s gaming place.
“Smoke!” he called. All heads turned toward the small boy in the doorway. “Tilden Franklin and them gunhands of his’n done dropped their gunbelts, and they’re all headin’ this way. I don’t know what they’re about, but I betcha it’s bad trouble.”
“I know what it is,” Smoke said. He set his untouched tumbler on the bar. “Thanks, Billy.”
“Come here, son,” Louis said. “You get over there,” he pointed, “and stay put. Andre!” he called for his chef. “Get this young man a sarsaparilla,
“But
“Reasonable question,” Louis muttered. “Where indeed? Lemonade?”
Andre’s face brightened.
A big glass of cool lemonade in front of him, Billy slipped from the table to the eggs-and-cheese-and-beef end of the bar and filled a napkin with goodies. Eating and sipping, Billy sat back to watch the show.
Louis watched the boy’s antics and smiled. His big bouncer, Mike, stood close by Billy, his massive arms folded across his barrel chest,
The chef, Andre, had beat it back to his kitchen. Let the barbarians fight, he thought.
Boot heels drummed on the boardwalk and Tilden Franklin’s bulk filled the doorway. “I thought I’d take you up on your offer, Gambler,” he said.
“Certainly,” Louis said. “Be my guest.”
Tilden walked to the bar and poured a tumbler of whiskey. He toyed with the shot glass for a moment, then lifted the glass. “To the day when we rid the country of all two-bit nesters.”
Tilden and his men drank. None of the others acknowledged the toast.
Tilden smiled. “What’s the matter boys? None of you like my toast?”
Smoke lifted his glass. “To the day when farmers and ranchers all get along.”
Smoke’s friends toasted that. Tilden, Clint, and the other TF men did not.
“What’s the matter, Tilden?” Smoke asked. “You don’t like my toast?”
Tilden’s smile was thin. Toying with his empty shot glass, his eyes on the polished bar, he said, “I’ve always had this theory, Jensen…or whatever your name is. My theory is that most gunslicks live on their reputations, that without a gun in their hand, they’re mighty thin in the guts department. What do you think about that?”
“I think you’re mighty thin between the ears, Tilden. That’s what I think. I think you sit on your brains. Now what do you think about that?”
“I’m not armed, Jensen,” Tilden said, still looking down at the bar.
Smoke unbuckled and untied. He handed his guns to Colby. “Neither am I, Tilden. So the next move is up to you.”
Tilden looked at his riders. “Clear us a space, boys.”
Gaming tables and chairs were pushed back, stacked against one wall. The barroom floor was empty.
Tilden’s smile was ugly and savage. “I’m gonna break you in half, Jensen. Then your wife can see for herself what a real man can do…when she comes to my bed.”
Smoke laughed at that. “You’re a bigger fool than I first thought, Tilden. Now make your move or shut your goddamned flapping mouth.”
Tilden spun away from the bar railing and charged Smoke. All two-hundred-forty-odd pounds of him, like an enraged bull, charging at the smaller man.
Smoke stepped to one side, stuck out a boot, and tripped the big man, sending him crashing and sprawling to the barroom floor. Smoke stepped in and kicked Tilden in the side, bringing a grunt of pain from the man. Before Smoke could put the boots to him again, Tilden rolled away and jumped to his feet.
Smoke, weighing some fifty-odd pounds less than Tilden, faced the bigger man. Both men lifted their hands and balled their fists.
“I’m taking bets on Smoke!” Louis announced. “Any takers?”
Clint and the TF men bet on their boss.
Haywood, Cohen, Hunt, Ralph, and Ed had quietly slipped into the gaming room, standing close to the front door.
