“Billy shot Tilden Franklin in his big ass!” Ralph again hollered, then bent over with laughter.
The laughter was infectious; soon they were all howling and wiping their eyes.
Judge Proctor was furious. Since he had begun his program of alcohol abstention, he had realized he was supposed to help maintain law and order, not make a mockery of it by drunken antics.
The judge signed arrest warrants for Tilden Franklin and as many of the TF gunslicks that people on the street could recall being present during the shooting spree.
Louis Longmont put up five thousand dollars reward for the arrest and conviction of Tilden Franklin, and the judge had Haywood’s printing press cranking out wanted posters for Tilden Franklin. He then had them posted throughout the county.
Louis thought it all hysterically amusing.
Now everybody, or most everybody, knew that no one was really going to try to arrest Tilden Franklin. Or, for that matter, any of the TF gunhawks. But it did keep them out of Fontana and Big Rock and, for the most part, confined to the TF ranges. Punching cattle. Which pissed off the gunslicks mightily.
“You got no choice,” Tilden said to his new foreman, Luis Chamba. Tilden was unshaven, and sitting on a pillow. “Not if you want to stay alive. All them damned old gunslingers have ringed my range. They’re just waiting for you or me or some of the others to step off of this range. Anyway, what are you boys bitching about? You’re all drawing top wages for sitting around really doing nothing.” Tilden did manage a rueful smile. “Except herdin’ beeves, that is.”
Luis did not see the humor in it. He stalked out of the great house. But Luis was no fool. He knew that, for the time being, he was stuck. Herding cattle.
And then two things happened that would forever alter the histories of Fontana and Big Rock and the lives of most of those who called them home.
Belle Colby, accompanied by Johnny North and Lawyer Hunt Brook, claimed her ten percent of the TF.
And Utah Slim finally made his move, setting out to do what he had been paid to do.
Kill Smoke Jensen.
9
“Riders coming, Boss!” Luis Chamba hollered through an open window of the large home.
“Who are they?” Tilden shouted returning the holler. He was sitting in his study, drinking whiskey. The interior of the home was as nasty as Tilden Franklin’s unwashed body and unshaven face.
“Can’t tell yet,” the gunslinger called. “But there’s a woman in a buckboard, I can tell that much.”
Tilden heaved himself up and out of his chair. For a moment, the big man swayed unsteadily on his booted feet. He stumbled to a water basin and washed his face. Lifting his dripping face, he stared into a mirror. He was shocked at his appearance. A very prideful man, Tilden had always been a neat dresser and almost fastidious when it came to washing his body.
He could smell his own body odors wafting up to assail his nostrils. With a grimace, he called to Luis.
“Tell them I’ll be out in fifteen minutes, Luis.”
Hurriedly, Tilden washed himself best he could out back of the great house and toweled himself dry. He had water on the stove heating for shaving. He shaved, very carefully, noting his shaking hands. Somehow, he managed not to nick his face.
For some reason, his crazed mind felt that the woman in the buckboard was Sally Jensen, coming to see him.
Tilden splashed Bay Rum on his face and sprinkled some on his body, then dressed in clean clothes. He was shocked when he stepped out onto the porch and saw it was not Sally Jensen.
The woman was Belle Colby. With her was Johnny North, the lawyer Hunt Brook, Sheriff Monte Carson, and someone Tilden had never seen before. A man dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and string tie. His face was tanned and his eyes were hard. A drooping moustache.
He cleared up who he was in a hurry. “My name is Mitchell,” he said. “United States Marshal. I don’t know who started the war in this part of the country, Franklin, and I don’t much care. But I’m delivering two messages today. One to you, another to Smoke Jensen. The war is over. If I have to come back in here, I’ll bring the Army with me and declare a state of martial law. You understand all that?”
“Yes…sir,” Tilden said, the words bitter on his tongue. He glared at Carson.
“Fine,” Mitchell said. “Now then, Lawyer Brook is here representing Mrs. Colby. Me and Sheriff Carson will just sit here and see that the lady gets her due.”
“Her…
Briefly, Hunt Brook explained. He further explained that the papers given Belle Colby were now part of court records.
“I want to see your books, Mister Franklin,” Hunt told Tilden. “When that is done, I shall determine how much is owed Mrs. Colby. She has confided in me that she is willing to sell her ten percent back to you. Once a fair price is determined. By me. Shall we get to it, Mister Franklin?”
Speaking through an almost blind rage, Tilden started to choke out his reply. Then some small bit of reason crept into his mind. He did not want these people inside his smelly house. That would not look good, and the word would get around.
“I’ll get my books. We’ll go over them on the porch. All right?”
“Fine, Mister Franklin,” the lawyer said.
Luis Chamba had discreetly disappeared into the bunk house. He had known who Mitchell was at first sighting. And while the Mexican gunfighter felt he could best him, no one in their right mind killed a federal marshal. He told his men to stay low and out of sight.
