“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
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, hut cowboys. And to show they were taking no sides in this matter, they had checked
