“And he thought Tilden hung the stars and the moon.”
“Lots of folks seein’ the light about that crazy bastard. Monte told me to tell you something else too.”
Smoke lifted his eyes.
“Tilden’s replaced all them gunhawks that was shot in town. But he’s scrapin’ the bottom of the slime pit doin’ it. He’s hirin’ the real hardcases. Cold-blooded killers. Range-war types. He’s hiring some of them that was vigilantes down on the Oklahoma-Texas border. He’s hirin’ thugs, punks, cattle thieves, horse thieves…anybody who can pack a gun and even just brag about usin’ one. Them dandies in town, The Silver Dollar Kid and Sundance and them other punks? Tilden hired them too.”
“I guess we’d all better get ready for the balloon to bust, Charlie. I don’t see any other way out of it.”
Sally entered the kitchen and poured coffee. She set a plate of doughnuts on the table between the two men. Charlie grinned and helped himself.
“You heard?” Smoke asked his wife.
“I heard. I feel sorry for Paul. He wasn’t quite right in the head.”
Speaking around a mouthful of bearsign, Charlie said, “Out here, ma’am, man straps on a six-shooter, that gun makes him ten feet tall. Out here, they’s a sayin’. God didn’t make man equal. Colonel Colt did.”
Paul Jackson died mid-morning, the day after he was shot. And once more, the undertaker’s hack rumbled through the streets of Fontana. The streets were far less busy than they had been just a week before. The one remaining hotel had already announced plans to close.
Several TF riders had come to town, and the story of what had happened at the TF ranch was beginning to spread throughout the rapidly shrinking town. The TF gunhawks were drinking and laughing in the Blue Dog Saloon, telling the story of how Paul Jackson braced Tilden Franklin and how Paul had flopped around on the ground like a headless chicken after Tilden started putting lead into the man.
Stonewall stepped into the saloon just in time to hear the story being told for the umpteenth time. Each time it had been told with a bit more embellishment. Stonewall had not really cared much for Paul Jackson, but Jackson had been a decent sort of fellow…if a bit off in the head. But he had been no thief or footpad, just a hardworking guy who deserved a better death than the one he’d received.
The deputy said as much to the gunhands.
The saloon suddenly became very quiet as the TF gunslicks set their shot glasses and beer mugs on the bar and turned to face Stonewall.
“You makin’ light of Mister Franklin, Deputy?” a gunslinger asked.
Stonewall thought about that for a few seconds. “Yeah,” he said. “I reckon I am. A fair shootin’ is one thing. Torturin’ a man for sport is another thing.”
“Well, Mister Franklin ain’t here to defend hisself.”
“You here,” Stonewall said softly.
Monte took that time to step onto the boardwalk.
The TF gunhawks jerked iron and Stonewall matched their draw. The Blue Dog started yelping and barking with gunfire. Monte stepped through the batwing doors, his hands full of Colts. Stonewall was leaning against the bar, hard hit, but he had managed to drop two of the TF gunslingers. The front of Stonewall’s shirt was stained with blood.
Monte’s Colts started belching smoke and fire and lead. Two more TF riders went down, but not before Monte was hit twice, in the side and upper chest.
Stonewall died on his feet, his gun still clutched in his fingers. Monte was knocked back against a wall, losing one Colt on the way. He lifted his second Colt and got lead into the last remaining TF gunslick before he slid into darkness.
The wounded TF rider stumbled outside and made it to his horse, galloping out of town, holding onto the saddle horn with bloody fingers. Joel ran out of the sheriff’s office and lifted his rifle. The TF rider twisted in the saddle and shot the deputy through the head before he could get off a shot.
Dave jumped into the saddle and took off after the TF gunslick. He ran slap into a dozen TF riders, on their way into town, the wounded TF rider in the middle of the pack. Dave was literally shot out of the saddle, a dozen holes in him.
Slim turned in his saddle and said, “Singer, take him back to the ranch with you.” He indicated the wounded gunhawk. “And tell Mister Franklin that Fontana is ours!”
Dave was left where he had fallen, the deputy’s horse standing over its master, nudging at Dave with its nose.
Bob Colby reined up in Smoke’s yard in a cloud of dust. “Mister Smoke!” he hollered.
Smoke and Sally both ran from the cabin. “What’s the matter, Bob?”
“Mister Luke tole me to tell you to come quick. Tilden Franklin’s men done took over Fontana and this time they done ’er good. Sheriff Carson is hard hit, and all his deputies is dead!”
“Where’s Johnny?”
“He took Ma over to a neighbor’s house, then said he would meet you at Big Rock.”
“I’m on my way, Bob.”
Smoke instructed some of the old gunfighters to stay at the ranch in case any TF riders might choose to attack either the ranch or Ralph’s new cabin, and told Ralph to keep his butt close by, and to carry his rifle wherever he went.
Smoke and the old gunslingers lit out for Big Rock.
“’Bout time,” Pistol Le Roux muttered. “I was beginnin’ to think we wasn’t never gonna see no action.”
In the town of Fontana, the bully-boys who made up Tilden
