A third deputy ran inside the office-jail just as gunfire ripped the street. Like Monte and Stonewall, he grabbed a Greener from off the rack and stuffed his pockets full of shells
“Take the back, Dave,” Monte said, his voice calm. “Where are the others?”
“I seen Slim haulin’ his ashes outta here,” Dave told him. “I think Joel is out in the county somewheres servin’ a notice from Judge Proctor.”
“Stay calm,” Monte told his men. “We got some food, and we got a pump for water. Tilden wanted this place built of stone for strength, so that’s gonna work agin him. It’d take a cannon to bring these walls down.”
“Hey!” a miner back in lockup hollered. “What about me?”
“Turn him loose and give him a shotgun,” Monte ordered. “If he tried to get of here, those gunnies would cut him to rags.”
The miner looked out at the angry group of heavily armed riders. “Who the hell is all them people?”
“That’s your buddy, Tilden Franklin, and his gunhands,” Stonewall told him. “Would you like to go out and kiss him hello?”
“Would you like to kiss another part of me?” the miner challenged.
Stonewall laughed and handed the man a sawed-off shotgun and a sack of shells.
Monte called out through an open but barred window “As Sheriff I am ordering you to break this up and leave this town or you’ll all be under arrest.”
“That’s gonna be a good trick,” Dave muttered.
A TF gunhand made the mistake of firing into the jail. Monte lifted his express gun and blew the rider clear out of the saddle.
The street erupted in gunfire, the hard exchange returned from those in the fortlike jail.
Blood dropped onto the dusty street as the shotguns cleared half a dozen saddles of living flesh, depositing dead, dying, and badly wounded men into the dirt.
Monte reloaded his express gun and lined up a gunhand he knew only as Blackie. He gave Blackie both barrels full of buckshot. The double charge lifted the gunhand out of the saddle, a hole in his chest so large it would take a hat to cover it.
The screaming of frightened and bucking horses filled the gunsmoke air. The riders were hard pressed to control their mounts, much less do any fighting.
Louis Longmont stepped out of his gaming tent, a Colt in each hand. As calmly as in a seconded duel, Louis lifted first one Colt and then the other, firing coolly and with much deliberation. He emptied two saddles and then paused, not wanting to shoot a horse.
The man who owned and cooked at the Good Eats Cafe stepped out of his place with a Sharps .50. The man, a Civil War veteran with four hard years of fighting as a Union cavalryman, lifted the Sharps and emptied yet another saddle.
Big Mamma ran out of her place and literally jerked one gunhand off his horse. She began smashing his face with big, hard fists, beating the man into bloody unconsciousness.
Billy, up in the loft of the stable with his newly bought .22 caliber rifle, grinned as he took careful aim at the big man on the big horse. Gently he squeezed the trigger.
And shot Tilden Franklin smack in one cheek of his ass.
With a roar of rage, Tilden wheeled his horse around and took off at a gallop, out of town, the gunhands following closely.
Nobody treed a Western town in the 1870s. Nobody. Nearly every man in every town was a combat veteran of some war, whether it be against Indians, outlaws, the Union Blue, or the Rebel Gray. But nobody treed a Western town.
Two years prior to the formation of Fontana, back in September of 1876, Jesse James and his outlaw gang had tried to collar Northfield, Minnesota. They were shot to rags by the townspeople.
The dust settled slowly, and a quiet settled over Fontana. Only the moaning of the badly wounded TF gunslicks could be heard. Doctor Spalding came wheeling up in his buggy, sliding to a halt in the street. His unbelieving eyes took in the carnage before him. He began counting. He stopped at ten, knowing there were several more scattered about in the dirt and dust.
Monte and his deputies stepped out of the jail building. “Get ’em patched up, Doc,” he said. “Them that is able, bunk ’em in yonder.” He jerked his thumb toward the jail. “You!” His eyes found a man lounging about. “Git the undertaker on down here.”
The photographer was coming at an awkward run, his tripod-and-hood camera-and-flash container a cumbersome burden. He set up and began taking pictures.
“Sheriff!” Doc Spalding called. “Most of these men are dead. Several more are not going to make it much longer.”
“Good,” Monte said. “Saves the town the expense of a trial.”
Tilden Franklin lay on his belly, in bed, while the old camp cook probed and poked at his buttock, finally cutting out the small .22 slug. He dropped the bloody pellet into a pan.
“Somebody was a-funnin’ you with that thing,” the cook observed.
Tilden swore, loud and long.
News of the attempted collaring of Fontana was quick to reach Big Rock and the small spreads scattered out from it. When Smoke took the news to Ralph, the minister sat down on a log he was hewing and laughed.
“Billy shot Tilden Franklin in the ass!” he hollered, then started laughing again.
Bountiful came on the run, sure something was wrong with her husband. Sally was with her. The ladies had been working, making a list of prospective members for the Big Rock Women for Equal Rights Club.
“What’s wrong?” Bountiful asked.
