Bill Foley, throwing caution to the wind, like most of his friends having absolutely no desire to spend his twilight years in any old folks’ home, stepped into an alley where he knew half a dozen TF gunnies were waiting and opened fire. Laughing, the old gunfighter took his time and picked his shots while his body was soaking up lead from the badly shaken TF men. Foley’s old body had soaked up a lot of lead in its time, and he knew he could take three or four shots and still stay upright in his boots. Bill Foley, who had helped tame more towns than most people had ever been in, died with his boots on, his back to a wall, and his guns spitting out death. He killed all six of the TF gunslicks.
Toot Tooner, his hands full of Colts, calmly walked into what was left of the Blue Dog Saloon, through the back door, and said, “I declare this here game of poker open. Call or fold, boys.”
Then he opened fire.
His first shots ended the brief but bloody careers of two cattle rustlers from New Mexico who had signed on with the TF spread in search of what Tilden had promised would be easy money. They died without having the opportunity to fire a shot.
Toot took a .45 slug in the side and it spun him around. Lifting his pistol, he shot the man who had shot him between the eyes just as he felt a hammer-blow in his back, left side. The gunshot knocked him to his knees and he tasted blood in his mouth.
Toot dropped his empty Colts and pulled out two Remington .44s from behind his gunbelt. Hard hit, dying; Toot laughed at death and began cocking and firing as the light before his eyes began to fade.
“Somebody kill the old son of a bitch!” a TF gunhand shouted.
Toot laughed at the dim figure and swung his guns. A slug took him in the gut and set him back on his butt. But Toot’s last shots cleared the Blue Dog of hired guns. He died with a very faint smile on his face.
Louis Longmont met several TF gunhands in an alley. The gambler never stopped walking as his Colts spat and sang a death song. Reloading, he stepped over the sprawled bloody bodies and walked on up the alley. A bullet tugged at the sleeve of his coat and the gambler dropped to one knee, raised both guns, and shot the rifleman off the roof of the bank building. A bullet knocked Louis to one side and his left arm grew numb. Hooking the thumb of his left hand behind his gunbelt, the gambler rose and triggered off a round, sending another one of Tilden Franklin’s gunslicks to hell.
Louis then removed a white linen handkerchief from an inside breast pocket of his tailored jacket. He plugged the hole in his shoulder and continued on his hunt.
The Reverend Ralph Morrow stepped into what had been the saloon of Big Mamma and the bidding place of her soiled doves and began working the lever on his Henry .44. The boxer-turned-preacher-turned-farmer-turned- gunfighter muttered a short prayer for God to forgive him and began blasting the hell out of any TF gunhand he could find.
His Henry empty, Ralph jerked out a pair of .45s and began smoking. A lousy pistol shot, and that is being kind, Ralph succeeded in filling the beery air with a lot of hot lead. He didn’t hit a damn thing with the pistols, but he did manage to scare the hell out of those gunhands left standing after his good shooting with the rifle. They ran out the front of the saloon and directly into the guns of Pistol Le Roux and Dan Greentree.
Ralph reloaded his rifle and stepped to the front of the building. “Exhilarating!” he exclaimed. Then he hit the floor as a hard burst of gunfire from a rooftop across the street tore through the canvas and wood of the deserted whorehouse.
“Shithead!” Ralph muttered, lifting his rifle and sighting the gunman in. Ralph pulled the trigger and knocked the TF gunman off the roof.
Steve Matlock, Ray Johnson, Nolan, Mike Garrett, and Beaconfield were keeping a dozen or more TF gunslicks pinned down in Beeker’s general store.
Charlie Starr had cleared a small saloon of half a dozen hired guns and now sat at a table, having a bottle of sweetened soda water. He would have much preferred a glass of beer, but the sweet water beat nothing. Seeing a flash of movement across the street, Charlie put down the bottle and picked up a cocked .45 from the table. He sighted the TF gunhand in and pulled the trigger. The slug struck the man in the shoulder and spun him around. Charlie shot him again in the belly and that ended it.
“Now leave me alone and let me finish my sodie water,” Charlie muttered.
The Silver Dollar Kid came face to face with Silver Jim. The old gunfighter grinned at the punk. Both men had their guns in leather.
“All right, kid,” Silver Jim said. “You been lookin’ for a rep. Here’s your chance.”
The Silver Dollar Kid grabbed for his guns.
He never cleared leather. Silver Jim’s guns roared and bucked in his callused hands. The Kid felt twin hammer blows in his stomach. He sat down in the alley and began hollering for his mother.
Silver Jim stepped around the punk and continued his prowling. The Kid’s hollering faded as life ebbed from him.
Smoke met Luis Chamba behind the stable. The Mexican gunfighter grinned at him. “Now, Smoke, we see just how good you really are.”
Smoke lifted his sawed-off shotgun and almost blew the gunfighter in two. “I already know how good I am,” Smoke said. “I don’t give a damn how good you…were.”
Smoke reloaded the 10-gauge sawed-off and stepped into the stable. He heard a rustling above him and lifted the twin muzzles. Pulling the triggers, blowing a hole the size of a bucket in the boards, Smoke watched as a man, or what was left of a man, hurled out the loft door to come splatting onto the shit-littered ground.
Smoke let the shotgun fall to the straw as the gunfighter Valentine faced him.
“I’m better,” Valentine said, his hands over the butts of his guns.
“I doubt it,” Smoke said, then shot the famed gunfighter twice in the belly and chest.
With blood streaking his mouth, Valentine looked up from the floor at Smoke. “I…didn’t even clear leather.”
